


chaos and bloodshed haunt us

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Series: One-Shot Collections [5]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: 40 year old Jacob, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk!Reader, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, F/M, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Gen, I'll put the warnings on the chapter titles, Jealousy, One Shot Collection, Pregnant!Reader, Romance, Self-Harm, attempted suicide, gender neutral reader, male!reader
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-31
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-09-16 15:25:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,506
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9277949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: a collection of one-shots from ac syndicate





	1. Rivalry [Frye Twins]

It starts with little things that you barely notice at first; hands that linger for seconds longer, smiles that show teeth when before they’d only been tight-lipped.

The changes are small, inconsequential, and when the bouquets of flowers begin to arrive, you’re so flattered that you don’t even care to find out who they’re from. And more and more of them continue to arrive until they’re everywhere, until they’re spilling out of your room and your fellow Rooks are taking some just to get _rid of them_.

The smell is overwhelming and the flowers keep coming, in bouquets that grow larger and larger until your window is blocked and you’re spending so much time outside just for the _fresh air_.

“Any idea who they’re from?” asks Harry, one of your fellow Rooks, as he pushes aside the bouquets set by your door.

You shake her head wordlessly. “None.”

“Obviously they think the world of you,” he says, and his fingers pluck a rose from a bouquet to wield like a sword.

“ _Obviously_ ,” you mutter. You adjust your jacket and get to your feet, pushing away the tulip that crosses your face with a flick of your hand. You swipe the rose from his hand and toss it over your shoulder, not bothering to see where it lands. “The Boss’ll be waiting.”

“’Course,” replies Harry, and he’s wearing an insufferable smirk that you can’t decipher. “The _Boss_.”

You pause a fraction of a step, glancing over your shoulder at the other Rook. Your scowl is light, quizzical, but Harry hardly seems to notice. He has his arms across his chest and he’s leaning at your doorway, watching as you battle the flowers to find your dagger and pistol.

“You know something,” you accuse lightly, slinging your pistol into its holster.

Harry shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Tell me,” you demand, steeling your spine, and Harry’s smirk turns into a cheerful but wicked grin.

He opens his mouth to speak, still smiling, but a head pops round the corner, drawing your eyes and Harry turns before he can say anything. You’re not positive, but you’re pretty sure Harry pales.

“Who died?” asks Jacob Frye and you huff a laugh as your boss replaces Harry by the doorway. Your fellow Rook has made himself scarce for reasons you’re not sure of.

You take a moment to survey your boss, from the languid, easy way he lounges against the doorframe, to the displeased look in his eye as he scans the flowers filling every inch of your room.

“No one yet,” you reply and you adjust your jacket once more, feeling nervous under his stare. “We’ll have plenty flowers for _their_ funeral though.”

His grin is as sharp as the Kukri blade that hangs at his side. He pushes off the doorframe and gestures idly for you to follow him, the wordless gesture you need that tells you your day is about to begin.

You follow him with a wide smile as you secure the dagger at your waist.

* * *

Evie Frye is beautiful and smart and nothing like her brother.

You still can’t believe she’s asking for your help – and it’s not the _first time_ either and you’re just as surprised now as you were the first time. She sidles up to you and leans on the desk, watching you with dark eyes that make you feel small and lips tilted up in a smirk that you think might be the only thing she has in common with her brother.

“Are you busy?” she asks politely, and you’re so used to Jacob just grabbing you and dragging you after him that you startle.

You shake your head. “Not at all, Miss Frye,” you say politely, even though you _are_ and you can’t really afford to stop.

One of her perfect dark eyebrows rises in an arch and you know you haven’t fooled her for a second.

“Be honest,” she says gently, with no anger. “I won’t have you getting in trouble with my brother because you don’t want to say no.”

You should say no. You _have_ to say no. You’re so close to becoming an Enforcer – Jacob _wants_ you to become an Enforcer, he’s told you so.

So you insist, “I’m not busy, Miss Frye,” and you have no idea why.

Her smile makes it worth it, you think.

And if you hear Jacob and Evie arguing about it later, you pretend not to.

Even when Jacob storms past you on his way out and doesn’t say a thing.

* * *

He’s avoiding you and you’re not sure if you should be ashamed or angry.

You haven’t _really_ done anything wrong. Evie’s technically your boss too and you couldn’t very well say _no_ (only you could of, she _told_ you so herself) and you couldn’t very well _lie_ to Jacob when he asked you if you were enjoying yourself (you could of but that’s beside the point).

Working with Evie is so different to what you’re used to – she has a plan for her _plans_ and everything is so neatly organised that you honestly wouldn’t be surprised if she alphabetises the books on her shelves – but you enjoy the peace and quiet after Jacob has left with the Rooks.

It’s not what you’re used to; lounging with Evie and drinking tea while you join her with her research. Usually Jacob would have started a fight by now and any hope for a quiet day just isn’t possible with him, not the same way it is with Evie. It’s rare, after all, that Miss Frye needs to leave the headquarters and when she does she rarely needs aid from the Rooks.

You’re pretty sure when she finally decides it’s time to put her research into effect that her plan won’t involve you; she’ll have every possible occurrence planned, every possible route covered and every possible problem that could arise will have its own solution.

Why would Evie Frye, the intrepid master assassin, possibly need your help?

But then she’s telling you _she does_ and you’re so flattered that you leap at the opportunity.

Evie Frye doesn’t ask for _any_ help from anyone, not her brother and certainly not the _Rooks_. It’s an honour that you’re not willing to pass up, not even when Jacob seeks you out especially shortly thereafter, wearing the mischievous smirk that you _know_ means trouble.

Evie had told you yesterday to meet her at nine in the tearoom and the last thing you want is to throw off her plans by being _late_. You have an impression to make to her – that you’re not like your Boss, that you can be relied upon to be on time. Perhaps if _you_ make a good impression, she’ll consider asking the other Rooks to help too.

“My _sister_ ,” Jacob repeats and if you weren’t so busy ensuring you have everything, you’d be laughing at the incredulity in his voice. You can’t blame him, not really, not when it’s what’s going through your head too; you still can’t quite believe she’s asked for your help, _you_ , when she could have asked any other Rook.

You had wondered if your skills had been discussed by Jacob and Evie, if your Boss has recommended you to her. From the confused and furious look on his face though, you’re seeing now that _that_ ’s not the case.

“Didn’t she tell you?” you ask, trying to remain as calm and innocent as possible.

“No,” he huffs and you can’t help but feel like this is an overreaction. You can’t quite understand why he’d be so angry about his sister utilising a member of the gang she helped create.

“Oh,” is all you can say. “Well.”

A frown creases his brow and he looks very deep in thought, staring at the pile of nearly dead flowers in the corner of your room.

Finally he sighs, and it sounds angry and frustrated and defeated.

“I want you with the Rooks tomorrow,” he says – _demands_ – and his tone is biting and irate.

“Uh, yes,” you say with a jerky nod, “of course, Boss.”

You’re not entirely sure how the news will be received by Miss Frye.

* * *

It’s odd to be working with the Rooks again after your relaxing week with Evie, after feeling _special_ and _useful_. You’re part of a group again now, wearing green and stalking the streets and washing blood from your jacket every night.

You slam your glass on the bar top and your exhale of breath is tired and frustrated. Beside you, Harry chuckles and runs a hand through his dirty red hair. He takes a long swig from his beer and sets the bottle beside your empty glass.

“You’re their favourite,” he says, like it’s obvious, like you should have known it all along. “They’re brother and sister, they fight.”

“I’m not a toy,” you say waspishly and you wave the bartender down. “I’m a _person_. They don’t get to fight over me.”

“They already are, kid,” says Harry, lips tilted up in a smirk.

“No, they aren’t.”

“They _are_. They have a _schedule_.”

You bang your head against the bar.

* * *

You’re not drunk, you’re _not_.

(You are, just a little bit).

(Just a lot).

The floor is moving, there’s a sway to your step, and you can hear angry voices that are so _loud_ , louder than you’ve ever heard before. You reach out to grip the wall, your hand slamming into it and sliding down, sending you toppling to the floor in a heap of limbs and giggles.

The voices stop suddenly, tapering off into quiet and confused sounding tittering. The door opens and the floor shakes beneath you with the force of footsteps. Your head feels heavy and _god_ but you feel awful.

Why do people drink so much, you wonder. It just doesn’t make sense.

“Bloody hell,” says someone above you and you know you can hear amusement in their tone, you know your drunk mind isn’t imagining that. A bark of laughter follows, cut off abruptly by a shout of pain and light voice scolding, “ _Jacob_.”

You uncurl from the floor, lying on your back now. Who convinced you to keep going after that fourth shot? You think you’re going to throw up at any minute.

“Oh, sweetheart,” says the same light voice and oh, your head is on the floor, when did that happen? Gentle hands brush your hair from your eyes and encourage you to sit up.

Evie’s kneeling beside you, watching you with concerned eyes, and on your other side, coming to crouch nearby is Jacob. He still looks amused, a twinkle in his eye that tells you that you’re _never_ going to live this down, not for a while, but he reaches out and takes your hand, comforting.

Ugh, you want to be _sick_.

Jacob moves suddenly, drawing you away from Evie as though he wants to take you into his arms.

“Let’s get you to bed, eh?” he asks quietly but you’re still on the floor and Evie’s swatting her brother’s hands away before he can do anything else.

“I don’t think you can help,” she says touchily. You see Jacob’s concern turn into a glower that you’ve seen first-hand make Blighters tremble but his sister is hardly fazed. “I’ll take care of this.”

“ _Evie_ –“

“I’ve taken care of you like this,” Evie says. “ _I_ know what I’m doing.”

“I’ve been in this state,” Jacob defends, “I know how it feels!”

It feels like they’re going to argue forever, you’re sure they will, and you’re still on the floor with two sets of hands hovering over you. You wonder if throwing up of them will force them to make a decision, or force them to help you to bed before Harry stumbles in after you and has even _more_ reason to believe you’re the unstoppable Frye Twins _favourite_.

“Sleep is the best cure,” Evie says, and her hands are firm on your arm, drawing you closer to her.

“Can’t sleep down here,” retorts her brother and you’re drawn in another direction, towards him, crouching near you on the floor but not looking at you.

Neither of them are.

You recall your words to Harry from before, the waspish way you’d said, _I’m not a toy_ , _I’m a person_.

(A person who’s going to be sick if these two _children_ don’t stop tugging you back and forth).

Usually you love their bickering, usually it’s amusing for you to watch, but now you know _you’re_ the subject of the bickering, it’s not so fun. Your head is pounding and your heart is thundering in your ears and _ugh_ you really don’t feel too good.

“It’s still my turn,” Jacob says triumphantly and you hear Evie’s derisive scoff.

“This doesn’t count!”

“Oh _god_ , there’s actually a schedule,” you groan, and you’re so embarrassed that you wish you’re willing yourself to _pass out now_. You hadn’t believed him, you hadn’t believed that these two master assassins would actually be so _childish_.

“There isn’t a schedule,” says Evie softly, at the same time Jacob asks, “Who told you about the schedule?” and this is _really_ humiliating.

“I want to sleep,” you moan tiredly, drunkenly, and your head thumps against the wall behind you.

“I’d be surprised if you didn’t,” remarks Jacob and Evie has no time to argue before Jacob’s sweeping you into his arms and striding away.

“ _Jacob_!”

He’s walking so fast, and your stomach is _churning_ and _oh, god_ –

“If you throw up on my jacket, I will never forgive you,” Jacob tells you, and you’re not sure if he’s joking or not but you’re not willing to risk it.

You can hear Evie storming behind you and you have to keep the contents of your stomach down, you _have_ to. Your room is in sight and the flowers are still in the corner, still almost dead, and your bed is so _inviting_.

“I don’t think you sent enough flowers, Evie,” remarks Jacob, setting you down gently, and you’re so tired you can’t even be bothered to remove your weapons. Your eyes are shutting and sleep is creeping upon you with the Frye twins still lingering in your small space.

“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Jacob,” says Evie calmly, in that way you’ve come to associate with her.

“Nor you.”

Fingers tenderly brush your hair from you face again and you hear a quiet clicking sound.

“Don’t throw up on yourself, love,” says Jacob, “use the bucket instead.”

You nod glumly, wordlessly, unable to get your vocal chords to work, and you can hear his steps on the wooden floor as he leaves the room.  You watch him go a little sadly and you wonder if there’s a way for you to convince Jacob and Evie to get along, a way for you to be with them both.

Evie’s steps are softer, lighter, her touch featherlike, grazing over your skin as though afraid to touch.

“Were the flowers too much?” she asks and her voice is as soft as her touch.

You shake your head, but what comes out of your mouth is, “After the first three bouquets, it was, yes.”

“Ah.”

“I don’t mind,” you hear yourself saying and you’re not sure if it’s because it’s true or if it’s because you don’t like hearing her sounding so downtrodden.

It’s maybe a bit of both.

So, in an effort to cheer her up, you say, “Is it your turn tomorrow?”

She grins.


	2. Uptown Girl [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Something has happened inside, something awful, and you’re sure Jacob Frye has something to do with it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by brookie4cookies on tumblr!

Your corset has been tied near unbearably tight by Ettie, so tight you feel as though you might suffocate – an exaggeration, you can hear her saying in your head, because the strings have been tied tighter than this before and without your knowledge too – and perhaps you wouldn’t notice it so much if not for the fact you are terribly _bored_.

A glass of wine rests untouched in your hand as you survey the room; the small gathering of lords and ladies, business men here to earn the good graces of your father, their wives, here to shimmy their way into your mother’s. And all the while you remain off to the side of their _small_ – only not really, because there are a number of people here you have never met before – gathering of their friends, a piece on the chessboard but not yet in play.

Because you’re not an idiot either – you know what your mother is hoping to get from this, an advantageous marriage for you, a way to get you out of her hair.

You know what you deserve and it’s not marriage to an insufferable thinks-he-knows-it-all who will have no time for you.

You know what you deserve, and you deserve _love_.

She’s eyeing you from across the room, looking pointedly from you to the young gentleman ambling towards you, with thinning lips and murderous eyes. The message is clear; _behave_. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at her and settle instead for turning away from her, just as pointedly as her stare to you had been before.

You set your glass of wine on the table, spilling some _accidentally_ , watching the red stain the white table cloth, hearing your mother’s shrill, scolding voice in your head already – _I saw you with that glass, you did that on purpose, do you know how much that table cloth cost?_ – and deciding some air would be lovely right now.

You lose your ‘admirer’ amongst the small crowds gathered in the hall, can hear the Hamilton’s cornering him, questioning him about his father’s business, his mother’s health, such questions you would have been forced to ask if you’d lingered and cared enough to.

There’s a light chill as you step onto the balcony, and rain that falls in large dollops and spots your dress and stops you in your tracks. Your mother will kill you if you go any further; if you return to that room soaked and chilled to the bone she will have no sympathy, only angry and bitter words and a harsh grip on your arm as she forces you to your room to change.

You take a deep breath, feeling miserable, and lean against the wall beside the door, sheltered from the rain by the overhang above the door. There’s a puddle near your foot that you dip your shoe in and out of in a vain attempt to cheer yourself up before you have to return to the less than ideal circumstances to which you have become accustomed.

Another sigh, a self-pitying one this time, as you reflect upon your life and your inability to change what you have no control over, and behind you, loitering in the doorway, a man clears his throat.

You’re expecting it to be the man whom your mother would have you marry, the man who became entangled with the Hamilton’s and allowed you your escape, but when you turn it’s someone else entirely.

He’s tall and broad shouldered and obviously in the wrong place if his attire is anything to go by; his jacket is tattered and ruined, and the seams to which have already fallen apart have been crudely sewn back together – and quite badly. You can feel your noise scrunching up in distaste as you survey him further, the life to which you have led dictating your actions and response to this unknown man before he’s even opened his mouth.

A flat cap sits atop his head, covering a mop of messy dark hair, and there’s a scar through his right eyebrow, adding to your already less than promising impression of this man.

But you’ve been raised with manners and even if the man standing in the doorway should not be here, you will not treat him unkindly for his mistake.

“I apologise,” you say politely. “I was just leaving.”

“No, please,” he responds, and it really is a shame that he so clearly doesn’t belong, because his voice is heavenly. “Don’t go on my account.”

And you don’t, because you’re curious about this strange man who’s stepping boldly onto the balcony with you – and what will your mother think, people will _talk_ if you’re caught – and he closes the door behind him, his eyes on you all the while. It’s not uncomfortable, not even close, and all you can hear is your shallow breathing and the rain hitting the stone at your feet, soaking the hem of your dress and chilling you somewhat.

You introduce yourself, because it’s _proper_ , and it doesn’t matter who this man is or where he came from, you have _manners_ and if the two of you are going to be alone on this balcony, the least you can do is be civil. His answering smile is wry and arrogant but he takes your hand gently in his own, his eyes never leaving your face. There’s a flush to your cheeks, tinted pink with what you hope is embarrassment but you’re really not sure, and a fluttering in your stomach.

“Jacob Frye,” he says, “at your service.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Mr Frye,” you tell him and while initially you’d expected the words to be a lie you can’t for certain say they are anymore.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

His voice is low and heady and you’re drawn in immediately, unwittingly, and he’s still holding your hand in his own. It easily engulfs yours, large and calloused, and on his forearm is a large gauntlet looking device that you are _sure_ isn’t the proper attire for something like this.

But, then again, he doesn’t seem appropriately dressed anyway, so what does it matter?

“So,” he starts, and he releases your hand at last. (You miss the warmth, but you won’t admit that). “What’s a pretty lady like you doing avoiding a party like this?”

You think you can hear a mocking to his words, a lilt of a joke, and you bite the bait that he’s holding, your temper flaring (your mother will have a _fit_ if she finds out).

“What’s a shabby man like you _doing_ at a party like this?”

You’re haughty and arrogant and looking down your nose at him and if you’ve never looked like your mother before then you do now. Jacob Frye looks shocked and amused by your bold words and while anyone else would be offended, there’s an amused smirk across his face. He leans on the wall opposite you, arms across his chest and his eyes dark all of a sudden.

You’re in no danger, of this you’re sure, and the dark expression crossing his eyes is something else entirely.

You’re not entirely innocent, after all, you’ve heard gossip and read your fair share of novels (you’ve nothing better to _do_ half the time, after all) but shivers run up and down your spine and you drop your eyes demurely to his feet, to the dirt caked boots he wears that have most likely trailed mud all over your mother’s carpets.

You do hope your mother is unaware of his presence because if she isn’t you doubt you will ever see Jacob Frye in this house again.

How he got in _at all_ is still a mystery.

“My line of work gives me certain privileges,” he says at last, with an expectant look to you as he awaits your own answer.

You swallow, and hold your head high like you’ve always been taught. “I needed some air.”

“There’s air inside,” he points out.

“ _Fresh_ air.”

Air that isn’t polluted with your mother’s pointed glares; air that isn’t polluted with idle gossip and chatter; air that isn’t polluted with unbearable flirting from less than ideal suiters.

“Ah,” he says and you can see the understanding crossing his features, an understanding you had not anticipated he would have.

He inches closer to you, an action so minute that at first you believe you’ve imagined it, and then you hear it; the screams from within.

You push off the wall you’ve been leaning against, curious and concerned, and Jacob Frye is upon you in an instant, crowding you gently back into place and standing intolerably close.

 _Improper_ , you can hear your mother shrieking in your head, at the same time you can hear Ettie shouting gleefully.

He stops your confused gasp in your throat when he leans towards you, his face close to yours, so close the stubble of his cheek brushes the shell of your ear, and you can feel his warm breath ghosting over your bare shoulder. One hand rests on the stone by your head, the other traces patterns on your collarbone and down your arm and _god_ but you want to touch him _._

You swallow nervously. In front of you all you can see is the dirtied fabric of his coat, the loose stitching around the pocket, and over his shoulder two men in red peering angrily through the door. Your cheeks flush crimson, aware of the implications of this, aware of the impropriety – _improper, improper, improper_ , your mother continues to shrill – but your mouth remains stubbornly shut.

He smells like ash, you note absently, and goose bumps rise on your flesh as he draws his hand over your back, over the strings of your dress, his touch deceivingly light. His touch leaves fire in its wake and shivers down your spine and as confused as you are by this action, you find that you won’t mind if he doesn’t move away anytime soon.

“Not a word,” he murmurs in your ear, and you nod as gently as you can, despite every instinct in your body screaming at you to draw attention to yourself. Your breathing is shallow and your hands are shaking and you’ve never felt like this with any man before. 

Something has happened inside, something awful, and you’re sure Jacob Frye has something to do with it.

The men in red turn away from the two of you and you’re alone again, alone with this man who you’re now sure is as dangerous as the dark stare he gave you earlier, but he doesn’t move away, not yet. He lingers close to you, unendurably close, and you’re sure you might suffocate from how long you’ve been holding your breath.

Your mother is calling your name, in that shrill intonation you’re so used to, but you can hear her worry as well, hear it echoing with every word she says. Jacob Frye smirks at you once more, one last time, and finally steps away and you can breathe again.

Your hands clutch at the stone at your back because you’re too shocked to move, and Jacob tips his hat at you.

“Miss,” he says, infuriatingly polite, “until we meet again.”

You watch as he strides towards the balcony and launches himself over and by the time you reach the ledge, he’s disappeared in the shadow of the gardens and he’s out of sight.

You’re not sure how long you stand there, squinting into the dark and letting the rain chill you to the bone, but when your mother finds you and sweeps you into a hug, you can still feel his touch on your skin, the fire he lit in your veins.

No amount of rain will ever be able to wash that feeling away.

* * *

The next time you meet him, you almost don’t recognise him.

The shabby coat and flat cap are gone, replaced instead with a leather jacket and a jade green waistcoat, a fresh, purely white t-shirt and a lose red tie, and a top hat that rests atop his still messy hair. He’s still wearing an infuriatingly arrogant smirk on his lips that you remember very clearly from the night of Mr Adams’ murder, and it doesn’t take a genius to realise he’s the one responsible.

You’re not entirely sure why you didn’t tell the police that.

Ettie’s birthday fast approaches but you’ve yet to find anything you think she’ll really love – and flowers hardly seems like something to show her how much you appreciate all she does for you. That doesn’t mean you can’t linger and smell them, admire the bouquets so beautifully put together by the woman at the stall.

The tulips she has are blooming spectacularly this year and you’re in the middle of leaning in to smell one when a familiar hand – for you could never forget those hands, not after they caressed your skin so gently, held you so closely – grabs one of yours and tucks it close to his elbow.

Complaints are on your lips, bitter at the interruption, but they freeze on your tongue when you realise just who is beside you.

“Good day,” says Jacob Frye, escorting you casually through the market place but never stopping to admire any of the wares.

“Good day,” you return, as calmly as you can, hoping he can’t tell how nervous you are. “I trust you are well?”

“Very well,” he tells you.

He sweeps you into an alley and crowds you against the wall and you’re reminded once more of the night on the balcony, of the men in red peering in curiously and eventually walking away. It can’t be so easy to convince people, you think, but then no one appears to be paying either of you any notice. There are a few disgruntled stares thrown your way but Jacob Frye lets them roll of his back and you follow his example – you have more pressing concerns after all.

“ _Very well_ ,” you taunt before you can swallow the words, “we can’t say the same for poor Mr Adams, can we?”

“If you really felt that way about _poor Mr Adams_ ,” he mocks, “you would have told the police about me.”

You have no witty retort for that.

“Why didn’t you?” he presses with his words and his body, stepping even closer to you, until he’s all you can see and smell and he’s everywhere. Finally, he says, “Ah. It wouldn’t do for you to admit to being alone with a man like _me_.”

“It’s improper,” you say meekly, a weak imitation of your mother’s words and your own thoughts from that night.

Jacob Frye hums. “’Course it is,” he says, his warm breath ghosting across your lips. “And what if I were to court you, what then? Would it still be improper?”

“Of course,” you say instantly, and you shove at his chest furiously until he steps back, watching you closely and his arrogant smirk widening into a broad grin. “Besides it would hardly do for - My mother would never –“

The words die in your throat. Your mother would never approve of the match, you think, and it’s almost enough for you to agree to it right then and there. She would never give her blessing and you doubt your father would either – for you to agree to this, to _allow_ this to continue, would only complicate the carefully laid out plans your parents have for you. After all, you reflect, they continue to invite the Tanners over for luncheon every other day and their son seems so enamoured with you…

It’s really a shame that you cannot return his affections, seeing as your thoughts have been so occupied with Jacob Frye since that night, since his close proximity to you. It really is a shame that you’re sure no other man will be able to affect you quite like he does.

And he has gone to the effort to make himself look presentable, you reason with yourself, perhaps he will be able to win over your parents (it’s doubtful, you know this, but if you have to put up being forcibly polite to that dim-witted moron one more time-).

“I would treat you right,” he says, inching closer, reminding you yet again of the night on the balcony, the slow gait of his walk that all but tells you you’re in the presence of a predator. “But if you don’t want this, say the word and we’ll never see one another again.”

And that’s nearly as unbearable as another luncheon with the dim-wit.

You’ve not been near Jacob Frye very much or for very long, but there’s no denying the chemistry between the two of you, the sparks between you. You hadn’t spoken his name to the police, part of an unspoken pact between the two of you on that balcony, when he’d crowded you into the wall and you’d been intoxicated by him.

You still are, but really, that’s beside the point.

You could have given his name to the lovely policeman who’d waited patiently to take your statement while your mother had you warmed up. You could have rested easily knowing Mr Adams’ murderer would be behind bars.

But the truth of the matter is you’ve heard the rumours about Mr Adams – you’ve heard about what he used to do to his family, to his staff, and you can’t help but feel like his death is a great justice on London.

And, somehow, knowing that the man who killed him wishes to be with you, to protect _you_ , warms your heart, and makes you seriously consider his offer.

You might never get one like it again.

You deserve love, you tell yourself this over and over again, but lately the words have been faltering with every word you’re forced to listen to at those damned luncheons.

Jacob is watching you so patiently, so kindly, and oh, what would it be like, you wonder, to be so free as he appears to be?

He offers you his hand, unwavering, encouraging.

You take it.

“And what if,” you ask delicately, as he tucks your hand close to his body once more, “my parents disapprove?”

“Then I’ll steal you away,” he says simply, as if it would be so easy.

(You imagine it would be. He’s Jacob Frye, he wandered into a party thrown by your parents, dressed in rags surrounded by people dressed in their best and killed someone and then walked away without anyone realising he was there).

You smile at his words anyway.

“No need for drastic measures,” you tell him idly, squeezing the arm your hand is tucked under. “Or not _yet_ anyway.”

“Then I shall wait impatiently for that day,” he tells you because while you want more than anything for your parents to approve, you know they won’t and somehow the thought doesn’t worry you as much as it should.

So they disapprove, does that matter?

You deserve love, you tell yourself again, and while you’ve only just met Jacob Frye, only known him _briefly_ , he might just be your shot at it.

And you’re okay with that.


	3. To Learn the Dance [Evie Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _But Evie Frye has plans for her plans and plans for her back-up plans, and she’s considered every possible scenario, and she won’t admit it but she’s as stubborn as her brother when it comes to remaining true to the objective._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> featuring male!reader

How was it Ethan Frye used to describe London? You can’t quite recall, but it’s nothing compared to actually _being_ here.

You can hardly move there’s so many people, can hardly hear yourself think there’s so many different voices, and it’s so unlike anything you’ve ever imagined that the voices you hear turn angry because you keep stopping to admire _everything_.

You don’t mean to but you’ve never been before, never been outside Crawley before, and you know you’re here for a reason – a very _good_ reason, mind you – but those you’re here to find have spent their lives looking after themselves. They can probably manage to last an _hour_ ( _two_ , at the most) without you while you take in the sights and get used to this large and bustling and beautiful city.

You’ve no idea where to start looking and you’re in no hurry to start your search for your needles in haystacks – London is a _big_ city – but you know you need to find them, need to make yourself _useful_ before George sends someone after you.

He’d been furious about the twins; you can’t even begin to imagine what he’ll be like when he hears you’ve ran off to London too.

You shrug amiably to yourself, grinning smugly over your successful venture and escape from the tedium of the Brotherhood in Crawley, and excited at the prospect of doing something worthwhile. Your future appears bright and you can’t wait to recall this decision in the years to come and reflect on how it changed your life for the better.

 _Now_ , you think, _to see the sights_.

* * *

You’ve no idea why it’s so hard to find a damned curio shop.

There can’t be that many in London, you think, and you remember looking over Evie’s shoulder as she studied her father’s maps – of course, you’d been distracted, understandably so, because Evie was standing _really_ close, and she smelled so _nice_ – but you can’t for the life of you remember where the bloody shop is. You’ve looked at that map with her a dozen times, but every time you try to picture it, she’s all you can see, leaning on the desk, her fingers dancing over the drawn streets, tracing her father’s scribbled words on the sides.

It’s frustrating, especially because this is _serious_.

The streets are near empty, save for a few blokes here and there wearing red jackets and carrying weapons you know aren’t just for show, and there’s something about them that’s _off_ , something you can’t quite place, but your decision to approach them is taken from you by the man in green that rounds the corner.

The reds are on him, hounding him, herding him, and he stands no chance. Weapons are drawn and you act quickly, spying the haystack on the ground, judging the distance quickly, sloppily and performing your leap of faith expertly even though there’s no one to watch.

You draw your own weapons, shout a curse and a threat you can’t even understand, and with the green by your side, you engage these strangers in this strange and beautiful city with this strange ally. It reminds you of Crawley, of facing off against Jacob in the fight clubs, the rare occasions you beat him, the frequent occasions he beat you; of fighting side by side with Evie, of stealth missions that so often went wrong whenever you accompanied her.

She always got so mad, so worried, and you always felt so _bad_ for your slip ups. Really it’s no wonder she left you behind when she ran off to London with her brother.

The green introduces himself as John and says he wants to introduce you to his Boss, thinks you’d be a handy addition to the Rooks. And you’ve got nothing better to do anyway so you gesture to him to lead the way, sheathing your weapons and fancying yourself quite the hero.

* * *

Jacob Frye pulls you into a rough and quick embrace, clapping you on the back and looking truly overjoyed to see you.

“I wondered when you were going to get here,” he says loudly and you can smell the ale on his breath as he calls for another, as he forces the mug into your own hands and forces you to sit. You reach out a hand to steady him as he nearly stumbles from his stool.

“A gang leader,” you muse cheerfully. “When did that happen?”

“About a week ago, two weeks?” answers Jacob, shrugging. “I think it suits me.”

It does, but you’re not going to tell him that. He looks different, older, and the jacket and the hat make him look every bit like the assassin you’ve encouraged him to be since meeting him. He always looked sloppy next to Evie, wearing his rags where she looked stunning; _Simply Evie_ , she always called her jacket and neck scarf and you can’t agree more.

Simply Evie. Simply _beautiful_.

You cast your eyes around the pub, around the other men and women surrounding you with their green jackets and yellow sashes. Jacob’s smirk is teasing and his eyes alight with mirth.

“She’s not here,” he says. “It’s like you don’t know her at all.”

“Where is she then?” you ask and you try to seem as nonchalant as possible but Jacob sees right through, to your eagerness to see her again.

“Back at the train,” says the other assassin. “Did I mention our hideout is a train? I bet the Council never saw _that_ one coming.”

“The train,” you repeat. “Alright.”

You set the mug on the bar top and start to get to your feet. There’s a breath, a pause, and then you turn to Jacob helplessly.

He rattles off a station, downing the last of his ale and reaching for your barely touched mug. You thank him quickly, pushing gently through the crowds of Rooks, and he waves you off without a word, but you feel his eyes on your back and hear his amused laugh for miles.

* * *

She’s leaning over a desk when you find the train, studying a small book and humming to herself, and for all her assassin training, she’s so absorbed in her research that you have to clear your throat to get her attention.

Evie doesn’t seem to believe you’re there at first but then she’s crossing the train car and pulling you into a tight embrace before you can say a word and she’s like you remember, _exactly_ like you remember; old books and peppermint.

“When did you get here?” she asks, and she’s thrilled and you knew she liked you but you didn’t think she liked you that much.

“Couple of hours ago,” you answer and it’s not technically true (you got side-tracked, so sue you) but she doesn’t need to know that.

(She’ll find out anyway probably, so it doesn’t matter really.)

“You’re lying,” she says suspiciously.

( _See_.)

“More like four then,” you admit. “Jacob hasn’t changed at all.”

She grimaces. “I wish he would take this seriously,” she says. “I thought coming here would make him realise how _important_ this is but now he has the _Rooks_. I think coming here might have been the worst thing for him.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” you say. “He seems to really care about them. And they seem to respect him a great deal.”

“They do. But they’re a distraction. The Templars have found a new Piece of Eden – our efforts _should_ be focussed there.”

“That’s why there’s two of you,” you quip. Evie shoots you an unimpressed glower with little heat behind it. You amend, “That’s why _I’m_ here.”

Her hug is quick and fleeting, and she’s moved away before you even realise what’s happened or before you can even reciprocate it.

“Good,” she says, and when she starts talking, filling you in on all the research she’s done so far, on Lucy Thorne and David Brewster, you know you’ll have to read her journal later, because you’re not listening at all. You’ve missed her too much to pay attention to all the boring stuff spewing from her beautiful mouth, and you are content simply to watch her and let her talk.

* * *

You’ve never liked balls or dancing or anything that involves having to leave your weapons behind. You hate walking into a fight defenceless and you hate more than that seeing Evie walking into a fight defenceless and trapped in the heavy fabric and corset contraption. It’s impossible for her to fight in it, impossible for her to do much else but breathe, but she’s Evie Frye and she’ll not be persuaded to abandon this foolhardy venture and hand it off to someone else.

Someone like Henry Green, who you like very well but who also gets along a little _too well_ with Evie. You’re not threatened, not in the slightest, and you like the man, but you’re grateful it’s Jacob accompanying Evie and not him.

Evie hates it, you can tell, and she’s tugging at the skirts and lamenting the loss of her hidden blades and she looks so beautiful that you almost wish it _were_ you accompanying her, just so you can ask her for a dance and have the pleasure of leading her around the dancefloor.

But you’re not a sappy pile of goo, so you tease, “I hardly recognise you, Evie.”

“Don’t you start,” she warns playfully, “I’ve already had to threaten Jacob.”

“You look so _ladylike_ ,” you continue unheedingly, “you’ll be sitting to tea and hearing all the gossip next.”

“You’ll not be sitting for a week if you don’t watch yourself.”

“Now _Evie_ , that’s no way for a lady to behave.”

She huffs and glares you down and she’s beautiful and you’ve no doubt in your mind that if Evie wanted to kill you now, she’d find a way, even trapped and restricted as she is in that beautiful gown. Beneath it all, you can see her discomfort; she hates these things, you know, and much prefers her shirt and trousers, with her weapons within reach. If she wasn’t so dedicated to the mission, you’d try and convince her to hand it off to someone else, to find another way.

But Evie Frye has plans for her plans and plans for her back-up plans, and she’s considered every possible scenario, and she won’t admit it but she’s as stubborn as her brother when it comes to remaining true to the objective.

You get cautiously to your feet and hold out your hand to her, all earlier traces of mocking gone from your face and voice as you ask:

“May I have this dance, my lady?”

You’re expecting her to shoot you down right then and there, to slap your hand away and scold you like she would Jacob, scold you for straying from the task at hand, for distracting her.

Instead, she places her hand daintily in yours and you pull her closer, your hand at her waist, hers at your shoulder, and it feels so _right_ and it should be you accompanying her, if you weren’t so sure that you’d be a hindrance – and if you didn’t hate these things so much.

There’s no music but the whistling of the train, the shuddering of the wheels on the tracks, and it’s difficult to dance as you’re swayed roughly from side to side but you think you manage alright. You’re not dancing anything particularly difficult – in fact, you wouldn’t say you’re really dancing, more like swaying on the spot and turning every now and then – but you’re content where you are, and sure that you want nothing more than to try again to convince her to remain at the train and let someone else wear the dress.

“I thought you hated dancing,” you tease softly, an attempt to draw your mind away from those thoughts.

“I do,” she returns, just as soft, “but I don’t mind when I’m dancing with you.”

Your heart warms and you hold her tighter, savouring her touch and wishing you never have to let her go.


	4. Thief [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _For a second you worry that he’s a copper but he’s dressed far too nicely for that, looking far too smug for that. He’s also got way too many weapons for that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by prince-aedion-ashryver on tumblr!

Your target loiters outside the shop, wearing green and yellow and laughing at something the brutish man beside him has said.

They’re Rooks, you think, and the name is familiar and curious. They’re a relatively new gang, started by some twins whose names you don’t care to remember, but all the gangs in this stupid city are the same, you feel, whether they’re wearing red or green.

Both gangs don’t care for your talents, both gangs don’t care for you or your people.

You push off the wall where you’ve been silently surveying the two men and, wearing a smirk that has very little innocence, you make your way over.

It’s pathetically easy to _pretend_ that you’ve bumped into him and with a feather-light touch that you’ve spent years honing, you remove his wallet, shrugging apologetically at him as you walk away. You can hear his muttered insults about you to his friend and, with a roll of your eyes and a pat of your pocket to ensure your prize is still there, you round the corner.

Just in time for the Rook to realise what’s happened.

“ _OI_!” he hollers, and you hear the pounding of feet on cobblestones as he starts to give chase. “ _Thief_!”

Years on the streets, stealing to survive, has prepared you for this part. You know these streets like the back of your hand, and you dart down a nearby alley, running as fast as you dare, as you hear the Rook shouting insults and threats at your back.

They never chase you for long, after all, and you’re far too good for them to ever –

Strong arms wrap around your middle as you’re thrown none too gently to the hard and wet cobblestones beneath you. This is strange for you; you’re one of the best in London, you know these streets, you _don’t get caught_ , it just _doesn’t happen_.

For a second you worry that he’s a copper but he’s dressed far too nicely for that, looking far too smug for that. He’s also got way too many weapons for that.

The trench coat he’s wearing is dirtied by mud but he hardly appears bothered by it as he grasps you firmly by the arm and hauls you to your feet. He’s wearing a jade green waistcoat beneath it all, shirt collar open and a loose red tie and while you might not be looking your best, you reckon you probably look a lot tidier than he does.

(He doesn’t matter that he makes the look work, that it makes him appear all the more handsome, you’re allowed to be bitter, the bastard _caught_ you.)

“Hand it over,” he says smugly, holding out his hand.

You grit your teeth and give him an overconfident, one-armed shrug. “Hand what over?”

“Nice try,” is all he replies, and his hand isn’t even shaking. “You really don’t want me to search you.”

 _You wouldn’t get the chance_ , you think furiously. _I’d bite your hand off before you got close_.

Still, the money you’ve lifted is the difference between eating tonight and starving until tomorrow, so you insist, “I _really_ don’t know what you mean.”

He appears almost cheerful as he drops his hand and shrugs.

“Alright then.”

He lunges fast like a cat and you only just manage to dart out of his reach. You don’t run – you never have been very smart like that – but you can’t avoid his clamouring hands forever either, not the weapons you can see glinting from the inside of his coat whenever he moves.

“Look,” you try, holding your hands up, hating that you have to resort to this. “I gotta eat, alright? So how about you just piss off back to whatever hole you crawled out of and choose some other thief to perform your good Samaritan act on.”

“I promise you,” he says, and he’s out of breath and _oh, so_ attractive while he does it, “I’m no good Samaritan.”

“That’s good,” you say with a nod, “means I won’t feel bad about this.”

Your foot comes up, catching him between the legs and, _really_ , you think, that move is obvious how did he not see it? He doubles over, shouting in surprise and clutching his groin, and before you take off again, you slip your hand into his pocket, nicking the what little he has. You give him a cheeky salute and a smirk as you get the hell out of there.

“Nice meeting you,” you call over your shoulder, and if you never see him again, it’ll be too soon.

That was _far_ too close.

* * *

So, of course, you meet him again.

Smartly, you’re keeping yourself far away from the Rooks and the Blighters, choosing normal civilians with a little too much money spilling out their pockets. Your day is going splendidly, normal like you expect, when you catch sight of him, turning the corner out of an alley and adjusting his coat.

You stop mid-step, eyes wide and staring, _waiting_ , and right before you turn on your heel and start in the other direction, he looks up. You watch emotions cross his face; confusion, surprise, _recognition_ , anger.

You huff a stunned laugh, remembering your last meeting and your less than honourable way of escaping him. He obviously hasn’t forgotten and as he starts across the cobblestones towards you, you finally kick yourself into gear.

You turn and flee – _I need to even the odds_ , you think, because you’re not going to run from a fight, you never have, and you’re not going to start now, but you need to find familiar ground first – and you hear him shout after you, hear his heavy boots pounding the street as he pursues.

The money you’d taken from him is long gone, spent on a less than filling meal the night before and something hot to drink, so if he wants it back, that’ll be a problem.

“Oi!” you hear him shouting and then nothing and for a few seconds you think you’ve escaped him again.

He has a funny way of surprising you.

He _literally_ drops out of the air, landing hard on the stones in front of you and forcing you to a stop, sliding on the wet stones and nearly losing your footing.

“Christ,” you gasp, hands held out in front of you as he straightens to his full height. He looks far too menacing now, far too dangerous. You try to calm your panicked breathing. “Okay,” you mutter, “let’s just think about this.”

“I have been, actually,” he tells you smugly.

Your lips quirk. “That’s nice,” you comment, “you’ve been thinking about me.”

He blinks. “I didn’t say that.”

“Really? That’s definitely what it sounded like.”

“Well that’s not – Never mind. The money you nicked from me, I need it back.”

“Come on,” you groan, keeping your eye on him because he’s trying to subtly stalk towards you, “fancy lookin’ bloke like you, I’m sure you’ve got plenty to spare.”

“It wasn’t yours to take,” he tells you.

You roll your eyes, searching for an excuse. “Alright,” you say with a shrug, a half-assed plan coming together in your panicked state. “I’ll meet you here, tomorrow, and I’ll have the money. Promise.”

You won’t meet him here and you won’t have the money, because you’re planning to get the _hell_ out of London.

“If I trusted you,” quips the man, “I might agree to that offer.”

You clutch your chest over your heart, feigning hurt. “You wound me, sir.”

“God forbid,” he returns. “I’m sure it will keep me up at night.”

If he wasn’t so threatening, you’d find him endearing.

Instead, you sigh and really hope that honesty is going to be the best policy here. “Look,” you mutter, and you relax your posture, hoping to look as nonthreatening as possible. “I don’t have it anymore.”

“Really?” he asks and he doesn’t sound at all surprised.

Vaguely annoyed, you snap, “If you knew I wasn’t going to have it, why the hell did you bother chasing me?”

He chuckles breathlessly and straightens from his fighting stance. “I thought it would be more exciting than it was.”

“Exciting,” you echo disbelieving, with an unimpressed stare.

“Yes,” he agrees with a shrug. “What word would you use to describe our last encounter?”

_Frustrating. Confusing._

Reluctantly, you agree, recalling the encounter, the breathless tone of his voice, the quickness of the actions between the two of you.

 _Thrilling_.

“Introductions,” he announces suddenly. He gestures to himself and says, “Jacob Frye.”

As he looks expectantly at you, thrusting his hand out for you to take, your thoughts are reeling – _Jacob Frye._ You know the name, everyone on the streets does; leader of the Rooks, taking London by storm and destroying the Blighters all over.

His lips quirk. “My reputation proceeds me,” he says smugly.

Your eyebrow twitches. “So does your arrogance.”

He looks offended for a split second but then your attention is diverted once more, your instincts on high alert as he casually strolls closer to you. There may have been a small ceasefire between the two of you, a white flag while you tried to gather your bearings, but he’s still a threat, a gang leader, and your opinions about them haven’t changed – _they’re all the same_.

“I’d like to propose an alliance,” he says, “but we’ll start with your name.”

Watching him warily still, you give it.

“An alliance,” you repeat sceptically, and you can’t help the direction your eyes have taken; they scan over his person, over the weapons he carries, the broad shoulders and the sheer strength you can see that emanates from him.

“Yes,” he says, and he sounds like he’s getting impatient with your dubiousness. “You can rally the other thieves in London, can’t you?”

You can – you wouldn’t say there’s a _guild_ , per se (there’s totally a guild) – but that doesn’t mean you’re going to talk to any of them until you know for certain this Jacob Frye can be trusted.

“Depends,” you answer, purposefully vaguely.

“On what?”

“On what you’re offering.” You swallow nervously and fidget on the spot. “I thought you had urchins to do your dirty work for you.”

“They can only do so much.”

Now you understand; he needs real, proper thieves, experienced thieves, the kind who know enough to steal something _worthwhile_. You roll your eyes.

“No deal,” you say, and you start to leave, brushing past his shoulder. “Steal your stupid trinket yourself.”

“You haven’t even heard my proposal yet!” He sounds truly scandalised that you’re not interested. He reaches out and firmly grasps your arm, stopping you before you can fully dismiss the conversation and yourself.

“I don’t need to,” you say, wrenching your arm from his grip and glowering at him. “We’re not tools for you to use at your disposal.”

“I never said you were.” He sounds calm now, pensive even, and it’s enough to make you stop. “I want you to join the Rooks; you and as many others as you can get. Earn a decent wage, a roof under your head – you won’t have to steal anything necessary to live. Only what we need to bring down the Blighters.”

A life off the streets… it’s tempting.

He can see the wheels turning in your head, you’re sure he can, because he reaches forward and adjusts the collar of your jacket. You should feel offended at his audacity, that he would so smugly invade your personal space, but it reminds you of who you’re dealing with and the stories you’ve heard.

 _Reckless an’ impetuous_ , you’ve heard whispered, _steer clear o’ ‘im_.

Your fellow thieves will not be pleased with this proposal.

“Just,” he pauses, “see if you can garner some interest.”

He strides away as quickly as he’d come, throwing an address and a time over his shoulder before he rounds the corner and is gone.


	5. Inspiring [Evie Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sassing, apparently, gets you a punch to the jaw and a gun aimed at your head._

There’s something about Evie Frye that inspires and terrifies you.

If you thought being an assassin _before_ was hard, it’s nothing compared to now, compared to the Frye twins in London, compared to wreaking havoc at their side in so many different ways. You wouldn’t trade it for anything, wouldn’t change a thing.

Still, there’s always _something_ to complain about, you think; even the best things in the world have some element of bad to them.

And this is no exception.

There’s no _quiet_ anymore.

Before, you’d been able to hide away in Green’s curio shop, with little worry other than the occasional Blighter stepping through the door and trying to fuck shit up. Now, every Blighter in London knows your face, knows the areas you frequent, knows to watch out for you. There used to be an element of arrogance to you that came with spending too much time Jacob Frye’s company but that has quickly been beaten out of you by the bastards currently towering over you and beating you bloody.

You _really_ liked this jacket too.

“Where are they?” demands a Blighter, your blood on his knuckles and a cigar in his mouth.

You spit at his feet, blood that mars his polished black boots. “I’m insulted,” you say, “here was me thinking you were looking for me.”

You can practically hear Henry already, the scolding he used to give you – _that mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble_.

Well, _technically_ , you think, you were already in trouble. What’s a little sassing going to do to this _already_ awful situation?

Sassing, apparently, gets you a punch to the jaw and a gun aimed at your head.

“I’ll ask again,” he says, his voice a rumbling growl while behind him you see a flash of red. You don’t want to get your hopes up, but you’re pretty sure that’s the same shade of red on Evie’s cape. “Where are they?”

You swallow, run your tongue along your teeth.

“You could always ask them yourself?” you suggest lightly and you watch with morbid gratification as Evie Frye descends from above, terrifying and awe-inspiring and everything you ever hope to achieve as an assassin. She’s alone, ruining the effect of your words slightly – you’d expected both of them, because usually one’s never far from the other – but it doesn’t matter, because she’s _good_ at what she does and before you know it, the Blighters are on the ground writhing in pain.

There’s a stern look on Evie’s face as she approaches, releasing you from the chair they’ve bound you to and helping you to your feet, checking the bruising on your jaw gingerly.

“It’s nothing,” you mutter, because she’s _Evie Frye_ and something like this wouldn’t bother her in the slightest.

She doesn’t believe you.

“We’ll get you some ice for it when we get back to the train,” she says gently, and the hands that still ghost over your face, over your various injuries, the hands that quickly disposed of the threat around you, take your own.

“Where’s Jacob?” you ask, unsurely, expecting him to appear at any moment, expecting him to ruin the moment as he usually does.

“I told him to stay back,” Evie says, squeezing your hands gently. “He has a tendency to make things worse before making them better.”

“Preaching to the choir,” you muse distractedly, with a soft smile. He’ll no doubt ask what was so important later, you think, but until then you’ll savour this small solitude.

“What happened?”

“Oh, the usual,” you say, shrugging. You wince immediately afterwards, the action pulling on injuries. Your voice takes on a mocking, grumbling tone, “ _Where are the Frye’s_?”

Evie’s expression turns apologetic. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” you say, with a wry smile and another shrug. “It’s my own fault for not paying attention.”

“If not for my brother and I –“

“Evie,” you warn lightly. “I’m an assassin too, remember? I might not be as memorable as the _Unstoppable Frye Twins_ ,” she smiles, “but I _can_ handle myself.”

Although lately you seem to be on a losing streak.

(But it means Evie Frye swooping in to the save you so you can’t really complain.)

You lean in to press a gentle kiss to her cheek, comforting and sweet, and you can almost hear Jacob Frye’s voice in your head, mercilessly teasing.

Who are the two of you kidding, really? For all of Evie’s quips about her brother, you’ve no doubt in your mind that Jacob is _aware_ of your ‘secret’ relationship.

(In that case, it’s not much of a secret, is it?)

There’s a pink dusting across her cheeks and a bashful smile on her lips. She still hasn’t let go of your hands, and her wary eyes still survey your surroundings closely because, even as relaxed as you seem now, you know Evie is always alert in London. You’re not entirely sure if you’ve ever actually seen her relaxed anywhere but on the train.

And even then she’s tense - you can mostly put that down to Jacob grating on her nerves.

“We better get back,” she suggests, “before Jacob comes looking.”

“God forbid,” you mutter and she doesn’t let go of your hand. 

Not even when you leave the building and come into full sight of the Rooks and their Boss.


	6. Lilacs [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Lilacs,” says Evie and there’s that cheeky smirk again, that gleam in her eyes. “First emotions of love.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by dawnee75 on tumblr

Brendan shrugs out of his red tweed coat and throws it to the rapidly growing pile in the centre of your small gathering. It’s odd to see him without out after so long, you think, odd to see him donning green and yellow instead, and spitting on the red jackets that you’ve spent so much of your life in before this.

Your own jacket is still hung on your arm and while you _know_ the smart thing to do is cast it aside and begin your new life, you are reluctant to do so.

The Blighters have been your life for so long; it’s not so easy to simply turn away from everything you’ve ever known. It might not have been the easiest existence you’ve ever known and you may not have earned enough to keep you fed most nights but it’s the _only_ existence you’ve known for years now and leaving it behind is difficult.

When you turn, Brendan has donned a green jacket that’s two sizes too big but he doesn’t seem to notice. The Rooks that crowd around you are clapping him on the back and introducing themselves and your friend – although that might be pushing it – doesn’t seem to have noticed your struggle.

You pride yourself in being fairly smart and calculative and you’ve known for a while that the best way to survive in London now is to leave the Blighters and join the Rooks, join the _Frye_ ’s. You haven’t seen them up close, not yet, but you’re content to keep it that way. You’d been lucky enough to remain hidden during the gang war but you’d been close enough to catch glimpses of Jacob Frye in the heat of battle and he’s someone you don’t wish to be on the bad side of.

 _Just throw it with the rest of them_ , you coach yourself, gripping the worn and tattered fabric tightly in your hand. _It’s not that hard_.

“Having second thoughts?”

You jump nearly a mile out of your skin, whirling to face the newcomer and thinking dismally, _shit, of all the fucking people_ …

Because standing in front of you, as if he’d sensed your thoughts or read them on your face, is Jacob-fucking-Frye.

“Er, no,” you say, after a moment to catch yourself, “just coming to grips with this change.”

“Don’t take too long, love,” he says cheerfully, as if he hasn’t just ripped your life to shreds over a borough, and then he’s turned his back on you.

Before he can disappear through the crowds of Rooks, you mutter, “I’ll try not to, _sir_ ,” with as much venom as you can, deciding then and there that you’re not too keen on your new _Boss_.

“Good,” he calls over his shoulder, and you know he’s not oblivious to the angry tone of your voice – he probably just doesn’t care. “Catch us up at the pub, won’t you? I’d hate to see a frown on that pretty face all night.”

 _And I’d hate to see a knife in your spine_ , you think sourly _, but that might just happen before the night is up_.

It’s become somewhat easier to cast aside your jacket now, with anger flowing through your veins now in place of trepidation, but you stand for a moment next to the pile, refusing the jackets being thrust at you in favour of watching your new Boss as he strides away.

You’ve met him properly for all of two seconds and already you’ve labelled him as _infuriating_. How on Earth a man like that became the leader of a gang, you don’t think you’ll ever know.

Brendan shouts your name and finally seems to remember you exist. “Come on!” he says, thrusting a green jacket in your hands and joining the swarm of Rooks that follow Jacob Frye to the nearest pub.

With a heavy sigh, you reluctantly follow, slipping your arms into your new jacket and finding yourself unable to get used to it.

* * *

You meet Evie Frye within the week and how on Earth you manage to impress the woman, you’ve no idea, but suddenly she’s demanding your presence at every available opportunity. Anything of importance is kept from your sight, as it should be – after all, at heart, you’re not quite a Rook yet, and everyone knows it – but she must see something in you that has your stomach fluttering and palms sweating whenever you see her.

No one has ever needed your assistance with anything before – you’d stayed well out of the way of the gang leader you worked under before, sure that the last thing you needed was to be close to someone like _that_ – but there’s something about Evie that draws you in and makes you _want_ to help her.

She gets so excited about the littlest discoveries, you’ve noticed, and she’s always willing to listen to what you have to say, even if you don’t find it particularly interesting.

Before you know it, months are flying by and you’re almost constantly at Evie’s side, discussing and plotting and finding a friend where you never thought you would.

If you’d known the trouble befriending Miss Frye would cause, perhaps you wouldn’t have bothered in the first place.

“Stealing my Rooks now Evie?” quips Jacob Frye, in that voice that you still find irritating, though you concede now that there is a charming quality to it.

You don’t look up from the book you’re studying, adamant that you will not give him the satisfaction.

As far as you’re concerned, Evie Frye is your Boss – you’ve got more to offer her than you do _him_ , after all. You’re no fighter and you take no pleasure from seeing pain brought to the Blighters who were once your brothers and sisters. You might be a Rook now, but your new comrades don’t know some of the men and women in red in the same way you do, don’t know the circumstances that caused some of them to don the red in the first place.

If there is any opportunity to avoid fighting them, you will take it.

“They’re not just _your_ Rooks, Jacob,” Evie reminds him pointedly, and you quietly huff a laugh, standing with your back to Jacob and feigning disinterest in the conversation.

“Funny,” says Jacob, “I don’t recall you saying that when _I_ was forming the gang in the first place.”

He slumps in Evie’s desk chair and swings his feet up and on to her desk. Evie catches your eyes when she glances over her shoulder and you smile at her vexed expression, rolling your eyes in return. Jacob catches his sister’s grin and sits up straighter, studying you closely.

You see the exact moment he recognises your face, rolling your eyes again as you pointedly turn back to your research.

“So _this_ is where you took off to,” he muses. “Obviously you’d rather bore yourself to death with my sister than participate in a good brawl.”

“Jacob,” Evie warns, but you’ve no idea why.

He leans on the desk beside you, baiting, and your eye twitches as you try to focus on the words on the pages set in front of you. It becomes impossible; you can almost _feel_ the smirk on his lips, can almost hear the taunting jibe that will follow.

So, before he can speak, you say, “I happen to understand, Mr Frye, that there are more important things than ensuring _you_ remain intimidating to men and women who couldn’t, frankly, care less.”

You dismiss yourself before he can say another word.

* * *

You should have known he’d find some way to punish you for it.

There’s a smug grin on his face when you turn up with Brendan the following week and you grit your teeth and pointedly look away as he casts his eyes over your face, searching for something.

You don’t care, you decide. If not for his pettiness, you’d be helping Evie with something _extremely_ important right now.

“Are you sure you can do this?” Brendan murmurs in your ear, as your Boss barks his orders.

Your palms are sweating and your stomach is churning; you don’t want to be here. You’d rather be swimming in pig shite, if you’re completely honest, but you’ve also a point to prove to Jacob Frye and you’re incredibly stupid when you’re stubborn.

“Yes,” you tell him, but your voice is shaking.

 _You’re not a fighter_ , you never have been, and you’re absurdly grateful to Brendan for being here, for watching out for you without you even having to ask. He’s reluctant to accept your answer, if the worried furrowing of his brow is anything to go by, but the arrival of someone over your shoulder distracts his attention and leaves you standing alone amongst the crowd when he leaves.

You’ve never felt more abandoned; Brendan seems to have found his place with this new gang quickly and the bond he struck with them that first day only seems to have grown with all the fights he’s been in. You can’t blame him, really; it’s been months of brawls and gang wars for him, whereas for you it’s been research and tea and long nights studying old books.

 _What I wouldn’t give for that now_ , you think, rubbing your arms against the cold and watching your breath mist in the air before you.

“You really aren’t thrilled to be here, are you?” Jacob comments from beside you and you’re tired and cranky and cold and really not in control of your words at all.

“Figure that one out by yourself, did you?”

Around you the Rooks are preparing to storm the Blighter stronghold, and with every cheer and clap on the back, you feel more and more nauseous. You _really_ don’t want to be here for this; what if your inaction in battle gets one of the Rooks killed? What if your inaction gets _you_ killed?

 _Urgh, you’re going to vomit_.

“Easy,” says Jacob gently, and it’s so unlike him that you have to stop your hasty retreat from the small group to stare at him. He looks exasperated. “I’m not all bad. If you’d only said sooner, I wouldn’t have pushed you to come out here.”

His words give you pause and you’re staring at the cobblestones at his feet, confused and disorientated, and feeling like you might have misjudged this gang leader. You’ve heard the other Rooks saying that Jacob is ‘ _firm but fair_ ’ and you’ve never believed it – there’s no such thing, after all. Any Blighter leader described like that would be seen as weak and you know that Jacob Frye is everything but.

“Oh,” you say meekly.

“That sheds some light on you,” he comments. “I was beginning to think you actually enjoyed spending time with my sister.”

“Yes,” you scoff, “because God forbid one enjoy _reading_ and solitude over fighting and-“

“God, it’s like having her here.”

You try to remain unimpressed but his disbelieving statement draws a laugh from you, relieved and tired. He relaxes and you’re amazed momentarily that you have that effect on him, sure that he felt the same about you as you do about him; frustrated and annoyed by his mere presence, and counting the moments to when you’d be free of him again.

“Err,” he starts, and if you knew him better you’d think he seemed awkward, rubbing at the back of his neck and looking everywhere but at you. He clears his throat. “Perhaps you’d be more useful aiding my sister?”

You can’t agree more.

There’s nothing sarcastic or witty for you to say to that, not a damn thing, and you stand floundering for words for a good few seconds.

“I, err, um, thank you?”

His smirk is wry. “You don’t sound sure.”

“No, I am! _Thank you_.”

Yesterday, standing in front of Jacob Frye, meeting his eyes, would have made your insides burn with fury. It would have been awkward and irritating, and you would have complained to Evie as soon as the moment was over and done.

Now your cheeks are tinted pink and you know for a fact you’re not going to mention this to Evie.

“Err, well, I’ll just…” you gesture haphazardly behind you, your smile as awkward as the action.

“Yes,” agrees Jacob, reaching for his Kukri blade as you take a couple of steps back, almost stumbling over your own feet. “Try not to hurt yourself, love.”

“Ha- _ha_ ,” you say, “hilarious,” but the effect of your words is lost when you catch your foot on a cobblestone and almost tumble to the ground.

Jacob’s hands on your arms steady you and your pink cheeks turn crimson with embarrassment. Jacob’s smirk only grows.

“Not one word,” you hiss.

* * *

He starts to hover around when you’re working, peering over your shoulder and adding unnecessary comments when you go too long without acknowledging his presence.

“Thrilling,” he says, when Evie rushes into the room with books under her arms and a delighted grin on her face. “Wonderful,” he says when you’ve finally solved the illusive riddle you’ve been struggling with for weeks and Evie’s grinning like a fool. “Ecstatic,” he says, when Evie irately demands, “Can’t you at least _pretend_ to be pleased?”

“Honestly,” you say one day. “He’s like a child.”

It’s one of the rare days when you’re alone with Evie, without Jacob hovering around like a bad smell, but his sister has this gleam in her eyes. It sets you on edge and makes you pause to think about everything you’ve done in the past few weeks; either she knows something, or she knows something about _you_.

You’re waiting for her to burst into song, like the girls you used to play with when you were younger used to – _I know someone who likes you_! – but before she can open her mouth, Jacob Frye rushes in, out of breath and manic, and demands his sister’s presence in the dining car.

“I’m sure it can wait, Jacob,” says Evie and you’re not possibly imagining the cheeky smile that flits across her face.

“It can’t,” snaps her brother, and then, pressingly, “ _Evie_.”

Evie rolls her eyes at you, mouths, “ _later_ ,” and then you’re alone again, watching the backs of the twins and wondering _what on Earth_ _just happened_.

* * *

Whatever Evie meant by ‘later’ you never find out because she doesn’t appear again until long after you’ve retired for the night and then, whenever the two of you are alone and she looks like she’s going to say, Jacob appears, inserting himself into the conversations and shooting his sister glares. He cuts her off but there’s always a wicked gleam in her eye and a teasing remark on her lips as she departs and leaves the two of you alone.

They fly straight over your head, as oblivious as you are to whatever has happened between the twins, and when the flowers start appearing on your desk, you still can’t put two and two together.

“There’s no card,” you muse, leaning in to smell one. They’re soft purple and white and no one’s ever given you flowers before, there’s never been anywhere for you to keep them, and your stomach flutters with butterflies.

“Lilacs,” says Evie and there’s that cheeky smirk again, that gleam in her eyes. “First emotions of love.”

“What?”

“That’s what they mean.”

And doesn’t _that_ confuse the hell out of you; you weren’t even aware lilacs _had_ meaning. But you’re flattered and they smell nice and they sit in a nice little vase Evie finds for you from the kitchen and they bring a smile to your face when you look at them.

“Didn’t take you for the flower type,” Jacob says when he sees them, leaning against your desk and wrinkling his nose up.

“I’m not really,” you reply nonchalantly, setting your books on the desk and nudging him out of the way, “but Evie went to the trouble of getting a vase for them so…”

“I think she has a secret admirer,” pipes up Evie from the doorway. “Whoever could it be, Jacob?”

“I haven’t the foggiest, sister mine,” says Jacob and there’s a bite of anger in his tone, that you’re sure of, but when he turns his eyes towards you, there’s only careful indifference and disdain towards the flowers. “Don’t you think they smell?”

“They brighten up the room, actually,” you say casually.

“Perhaps you could buy a bunch,” Evie adds. “Brighten up the room some more, Jacob.”

“My mere presence does enough of that,” he deadpans.

“Does it?” you quip, “And here was me thinking that it did the exact opposite.”  

“You _wound_ me.”

When your relationship graduated to flirty jokes you’re not sure but usually by now Jacob has grown tired of the quiet atmosphere and the sophisticated silence and disappeared to the dining car with his Rooks. Instead, he’s still lingering by your desk, exchanging glances with his sister every so often and shooting the lilacs on your table wary glances.

“It’s just a plant, Jacob,” you say. “And it smells nice.”

“Perhaps you should find out who sent them,” Evie suggests, “I’m sure you’ll be surprised.”

Startled, you turn away from Jacob and face his sister, grinning. “You know who sent them?”

“Of course,” she says, and, confusingly, she turns her sly smirk towards Jacob. “Like I said, you’ll be surprised.”

“Evie,” Jacob says, “isn’t that Henry calling for you?”

You don’t hear anything.

“Is it?” asks Evie innocently. “I don’t hear anything.”

“ _Evie_.”

The sly smirk doesn’t leave her lips as she leaves the train car with a dismissive wave. Jacob doesn’t relax until she’s out of sight and you’re looking between the two of them, utterly complexed and sure you’ve missed something important.

“Are you two fighting again?”

“No,” says Jacob, “no more than usual.”

“Alright,” you murmur, nodding your head. You catch a waft of the lilacs again, calming and comforting, and over your shoulder, you throw, “do _you_ know who sent them?”

“Yes.”

His reply is blunt and derisive like the glower he shoots at the flowers on your desk. You’re not sure what they’ve done to bother him, or if you’ve done anything to bother him, but the fact that he knows who sent them is all you can really care about.

“Who was it?”

You’re searching your brain for anyone who’s shown interest, but no one’s coming to mind; Brendan’s your friend and you can’t recall being in any situation that’s prompted _more_. You rarely spend time with the Rooks outside of a few late night drinks with their boss in the dining car, and even then you’re never far from Jacob’s side.

(It seems rude to leave him when he’s the one who invited you, after all, and he always seems interested in whatever conversation you strike, regardless of how boring you find them.)

“Err,” starts Jacob, shifting uncomfortably. “Evie.”

 _What_?

“Wow,” you breathe, wide-eyed and nodding slowly, trying to wrap your head around it. “Well. That’s flattering.”

A beat of silence.

And then:

“She did it for me.”

You’re surprised and confused and even _more_ flattered – _hello,_ he’s _Jacob-fucking-Frye_ – but more than anything else you feel like you’ve _missed_ something important because he’s never sent you flowers before, and he’s never really shown much of an –

 _Oh_.

Except he _has_ , you realise; late nights alone as you struggle to finish up research and Jacob coming to find you, encouraging you to eat something, to _sleep_ , because you can’t work at your best if you’re tired and cranky. Early mornings after late nights and Jacob fighting with Evie that her plans for the day should be changed because you’re _exhausted_ and it’s his fault you stayed up so late anyway.

“Oh,” you murmur.

Drunken hugs and Jacob escorting you home, humouring your awful jokes and puns that always seem ten times funnier when you’ve had a few drinks.

“Oh.”

Your cheeks are dusted with pink and suddenly Evie’s taunts and jibes and sly smirks make a lot more sense. No wonder Evie forced herself into the situation when you had no idea he felt that way and he had no idea how to tell you.

Now you feel flattered and _dumb_.

You drop your head in your hands and your groan is muffled and embarrassed.

“Err, yes,” says Jacob. “Well, I’ll just… be off then.”

At least you’re not the only one embarrassed – that’s a relief – but you by no means want to discourage him, not when you don’t dislike his presence, not when you appreciate more than you ever thought you would his striding into your life that day, his dismantling of the Blighter presence that you once thought was the only family you had.

“Jacob,” you call, reaching for him as he leaves, grabbing his arm and hesitating for a split second when he halts.

You nearly lose your nerve but you gather your courage and lean forward, kissing his cheek briefly, your cheeks flushing crimson now.

“The flowers are lovely,” you say, “even if you had nothing to do with them.”

He shoots you a grin that’s as genuine as the blush creeping across his cheeks and his hand brushes yours gently, a fleeting touch that has so much more meaning now than it would have five minutes ago. You can almost hear Evie’s sigh of relief, the breathy “ _finally_ ” she’ll say when she finds out.

Jacob departs with a promise of drinks later and a proper talk, and kisses you chastely on the cheek.

You’re still thinking about it five minutes later, still thinking about it every time your eyes land on the lilacs set on your desk.

It’s a lot harder to concentrate now than it had been ten minutes ago.


	7. Wilting Flowers [Frye Twins]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _And you honestly can’t remember at all – your lack of motivation seems to have stretched further than simply killing plants and declining invitations for drinks._

It feels like the sky is falling again and you don’t know why.

The colour seems to have drained from the world and it’s near impossible for you to smile, as down as you feel and as isolated as you’ve made yourself. The way you feel is your own fault, you think, because you just can’t motivate yourself to join the other Rooks when they invite you out; if it wasn’t absolutely _necessary_ for you to join your fellow gang members every day, you’d be perfectly content to remain in your room and see no one at all until the end of time.

(You wouldn’t really but it’s how you feel right now, bitter and angry and upset for reasons you can’t be sure of.)

You hate when this happens. You were getting _better_ ; what happened to draw your demons out of the dark again? What happened to make you forget all the progress you’ve made?

You’ve never hated the road to recovery more so than now – it’s a constant uphill battle, with pot holes in the road just waiting to trip you up just when you think you’ve made progress.

There’s a vase of flowers on your dresser, dark and wilting, nothing like the blooming and beautiful bouquet they had been when you’d first received them. You feel bad for letting them get this way and instantly your thoughts turn dark; you can’t do anything _right_ , can you? Can’t even motivate yourself to do something so simple as water some flowers.

You’re almost glad the Frye’s haven’t thought to check on you yet – you’d hate to see the look on Evie’s face if she saw those flowers. They’re beyond saving, you reckon, and it’s all your fault.

You drag the blanket up over your head, burying your face in the warmth and curling your body into as small a ball as possible. You really just want everything to disappear for a few weeks, just until you can remember who you are again, until you remember what it’s like to be _happy_ , until you remember _how_ to be happy.

Before you know it, your eyes are stinging with tears and your throat is burning and what you wouldn’t give to feel nothing at all.

You can hear them before they brave knocking on the door, arguing in voices that aren’t as hushed as they probably think.

“Just knock on the door, Evie,” you hear Jacob say and then his sister’s reply, appalled, “We can’t just _knock_! Obviously this is a very trying time –“

There’s a scathing scoff and then three quick and loud knocks, followed by the door creaking open before you can even open your mouth and Evie hissing, “ _Jacob_!”

“You’re not drunk again, are you?” greets Jacob Frye easily and you can hear his heavy steps as he strides into your room, as cocky as ever. Evie’s heels are quieter on the wooden floorboards and you can almost feel her inquisitive eyes on your bed, on your prone form, but she says nothing.

Jacob says your name jovially, unconcerned and then, after a pause and what you imagine to be a very animated silent conversation between the twins, he says it again, softer, as Evie coaxes you to peer out from your nest of blankets.

The twins in your room is exactly the thing you were hoping to avoid; by doing your job, by walking the streets with the Rooks every day, you’d hoped they wouldn’t see a difference. You’d hoped they’d leave you be, that you could figure this out on your own.

“Sweetheart,” murmurs Evie and her gentle fingers ghost over your tearstained cheeks, brushing your hair from your face. “What’s happened?”

“It’s nothing,” you mutter and your voice is croaky and your throat is still burning. “I’m fine.”

“Oh, of course you are,” says Jacob scornfully. “You look right as bloody rain.”

“ _Jacob_.”

It’s a surprise; you haven’t really moved from your bed since arriving back here after leaving the streets, after leaving the Rooks you’d been with. They’d disappeared, mentioning something about going off to find the Boss and join him for drinks, and you’d been so tired – _exhausted_ , and from more than just a _long day_ – that you’d declined and you couldn’t get away from them fast enough.

You haven’t really looked in any mirrors lately either and while you’ve been feeling like – for lack of a better word – _shite_ , you didn’t think it was bad enough that it was _obvious_.

“Sorry,” you mumble but you’re not sure why or what for. For the flowers, wilting on your dresser? For the Rooks and their Boss, who haven’t seen you in days because you’ve descended into the darkest pit of your mind? For Evie, who hasn’t seen you in longer than that because you’ve been so sure she’d be able to tell right off the bat?

“You’ve nothing to apologise for,” Evie says gently, and she hasn’t moved; she’s still crouching at the head of your bed, soothing you gently with her hand in your hair.

“Well,” pipes up Jacob and he crosses the room to lean against the headboard, looking down at you with eyes twinkling with mirth, “if we’re looking for owed apologies, there was that time –“

“ _Jacob_.”

Your lips quirk. It’s the first semblance of amusement you’ve felt in days, the first sign you’ve had in longer than that that things might be turning alright again. You’re used to ploughing through these things alone, used to struggling through it until everything’s okay again – because, usually everything _does_ get okay again, it just _feels_ like it never will, because recovery is _fucking hard_ and your demons are deceiving.

“There it is,” muses Jacob. He reaches for your hand, clenched around the blankets tucked under your neck. “I’ve missed that smile.”

“You can talk to us,” Evie adds. “Whenever you need to.”

“It’s really nothing,” you try to insist, because you have dealt with this without them before, and if they weren’t here, if you were still alone, you’d have to do the same thing again.

“Of course it isn’t,” agrees Jacob Frye, “you just like to decorate your room with dead flowers.”

“We’ll get you a new bouquet,” Evie adds and you don’t miss the stern look she shoots her brother.

“I didn’t mean to kill them,” you say worriedly, because you didn’t, not really, you just lost the motivation and forgot about them. “I swear.”

“I know, sweetheart,” says Evie, at the same time Jacob says your name and “They’re just flowers.”

You feel a little better, a little more content and whole than before, and slowly you start to untangle yourself from your nest of blankets, sitting upright on your small bed and feeling very small under the eyes of the twin assassins.

Evie’s eyes rake over your appearance, calculating, formulating, and finally, she asks, in the motherly way you’ve grown used to, “When was the last time you ate?”

And you honestly can’t remember at all – your lack of motivation seems to have stretched further than simply killing plants and declining invitations for drinks.

“Well we can’t have that,” rumbles Jacob and there’s an agreeing hum from Evie as the two assassins help you from bed. You feel like a child – they’re providing assistance you don’t particularly need but if it makes them feel useful, you won’t complain – and you wrap yourself in one of the blankets from your bed before you can leave the room.

Jacob gives an amused huff at the sight, leading you out with an arm around your shoulders and a hand on your arm while Evie gathers the vase from the dresser, removing those wilting flowers and already, you know, making plans for a new bouquet to replace them.


	8. Changed Times [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You’re older now, wiser, but that doesn’t mean you’ve always been perfect._

The target is pacing back and forth in front of the window, frantically combing through the papers in his hands, and beside you, your apprentice, Beth, seems keen to get started.

“Patience,” you counsel. “There’s still time.”

It’s ironic, you think, because there’s a time where you were the exact same as your student, eager to lunge into action, unthinking. How many times would things have gone sour, if not for Jacob and Evie? How many times might you have died, if not for Jacob leaping into your rescue?

You’re older now, wiser, but that doesn’t mean you’ve always been perfect.

“But we could take him now,” says Beth, crouching beside you. She checks her hidden blade, once, twice, and her eyes don’t leave the target.

“We could,” you murmur, “but that’s not the plan.”

Jacob and Emmett are not yet in position and any deviations from the plan could put you all in danger. There was a time where you thought you _could_ do things alone, that you didn’t need Jacob – you wanted to prove something to him, you can’t remember what – but it hadn’t ended well.

“You taught me to be adaptable,” Beth reminds quietly.

“Yes,” you agree, “but charging in now wouldn’t be _adapting_.”

Beth sighs, aggravated, and falls silent.

Prowling the grounds below are his guards, and how long ago was it that they were Blighters and you were side by side with the Rooks? How long ago was it that it was the four of you – you and Jacob and Evie and Henry – against the world?

Sometimes you miss it, miss the rush that used to come with charging a gang stronghold, with having the odds stacked so high against you.

Things are so different now; now you have a child (though he’s hardly a child now, you think) and a husband. Now you have students in the Brotherhood – now you _have_ a Brotherhood. How long ago was it that the Templars hold on London seemed unbreakable? That it all seemed a hopeless cause?

There’s no sign of Jacob and Emmett yet and your target is getting fidgety. Evie counsels plans for plans, you recall, and while she’s grown lenient on the idea of improvising – sometimes it’s _necessary_ – you know that she would be out of her element to do so.

And Jacob, still so brash but not quite so impulsive, has found the value in plans, as brief as they may be, and, while on one breath he would counsel waiting for him, on the other he might scold for not acting and letting the target get away.

You sigh, aggravated, and out the corner of your eye, you see Beth perking up.

“Alright,” you mutter, “we have to do this now.”

“Finally,” Beth says.

You roll your eyes, your aggravation at your target turning into irritation at your student, but you start to fire off orders, suggestions, and Beth starts to return them until the two you have half a plan that has some chance of success.

You split up and that’s when everything goes to hell.

* * *

In retrospect, you should have expected that it was all a ploy to draw the two of you in.

Beth looks embarrassed – she has a right to, you think, because this is _her_ fault, but then it’s yours too because you’re the teacher and you should have _figured_ there was something happening here – but there are more pressing concerns on your mind right now.

Your target has transformed before your eyes; he’s no longer the frantic, scrabbling man from before. He is now dangerous and prowling, striding before the two of you and holding a pistol in his hands. Years ago, you’d be scared but now you’re only wary, watching his movements with a calculative gaze and aware that you have a student to watch out for.

“Bloody assassins,” hisses the target shakily. “Bloody _assassins_.”

“You sound nervous,” you comment lightly, as confidently as you can. “Is it something we did?”

The target spins on the spot, turning the pistol on you in his fury, and in your younger years staring down the muzzle of a gun would have made your heart skip a beat, would have made your palms sweat. Now, you stare back at him, unimpressed. You have dealt with far worse than this.

You are a master assassin and a mother – guns don’t scare you anymore.

“Don’t you-“ he stops, gathers himself, and starts again. “Where is he?”

Innocently, you cock your head to the side. “Whomever do you mean?”

He inhales through gritted teeth and to your right, you see Beth tense. This is all new for her, you think, whereas this is happened so often for you that you’re expecting a chewing out from Jacob over it. He’ll probably write to Evie too, you think, and in a few months you’ll get a letter with _another_ chewing out.

Really, it’s not your fault. Beth is too much of an influence on you, too much of a reminder of your younger years.

“Frye,” snarls the man before you. “Where is he?”

“We came alone,” Beth says insistently, drawing his attention, and you make your move, slicing through the ropes that bind you and thrusting your hidden blade into his neck.

A soft sigh escapes your lips as you roll your shoulder, crouching down to swipe through the wound with your handkerchief. Beth releases herself, sheepish and a flush dancing across her cheeks, and you shrug, an understanding smile gracing your lips.

“You learn these things,” you say nonchalantly.

You can clearly remember a time where you had been in Beth’s position, after all, quick to act but not to think, and it is something she will learn with time.

You open your mouth to tell her so but you’re interrupted by the door being thrown open, spinning on your heel and reaching for a throwing knife, and only your years of training stop you from acting first, of doing the same thing you were about to advise Beth against.

Emmett throws himself into the room, every bit his father’s son, and behind him, calmer save for the terrified fury behind his eyes, is Jacob Frye himself.

“Finally,” you sigh, accepting the hands that check you for injuries, the eyes that search your face for any sign of strain. You swat him away, oblivious to Emmett bundling past you, oblivious to Beth behind you, still standing over the target’s lifeless body. “I’m fine!”

“I told you to wait,” Jacob scolds softly, and wasn’t there a time where he’d be commending you for standing on your own two feet, for seizing the opportunity? How time has changed you both.

“If we’d waited any longer there would have been no target,” you tell him. “Someone tipped him off.”

“That’s irrelevant,” he says, with a shake of his head.

“Is it?”

His answer is a chaste kiss to your smirking lips, a concession of defeat or an unwillingness to argue, and behind you there are curious whispers between Beth and Emmett. A quick glance over your shoulder shows a hushed conversation and touches that linger and you cock your head, nudging Jacob gently with your elbow.

“What’s this?” you murmur to him, but he’s not paying attention, still searching you for any sign of injury, and it’s not until you admonish softly, “ _Jacob_ ,” that he turns his eyes to his son and your student.

Emmett has Beth’s hands in his own and you can only describe the look on his face as adoration. He’s searching her face much like Jacob had you, trying to find the slightest bit wound, the slightest discomfort, and you’re not sure when this happened.

“How long have they been…?”

“A while, I imagine,” says Jacob, and there’s a teasing smirk and a quip on his lips before you can stop him; “I think you two ought to get a room.”

You slap him on the arm. “ _Jacob_.”

Beth’s cheek flush pink again and you’re reminded of Evie’s teasing jibes when she first discovered the secret relationship between you and her brother.

“Father,” Emmett grumbles, and again you think he is his father’s son; he wears the same exasperated look Jacob had gotten with Evie, the same embarrassed irritation.

You reach forward to take his arm, to calm him. “How long,” you start, your eyes going between the two, “has this been going on?”

Beth bites her lip. “Um. A couple of months?”

 _That_ should surprise you but it doesn’t. Over your shoulder, you catch Jacob’s approving look.

“Must run in the family,” you muse, grinning at him.

“We kept ours secret for longer,” Jacob points out, returning your grin with his own, triumphant one. You don’t want to be treating this like a competition, but, then again, your record _has_ yet to be broken.

“Really?” asks Emmett and just by the bemused tone of his voice, you can tell he’s about to burst your bubble. “Because Aunt Evie said she found out within weeks.”

“Your Aunt Evie is lying,” retorts Jacob defensively.

“Aunt Evie wouldn’t –“

“Boys,” you say with a huff, sharing a smile with Beth. She seems more at ease now despite what you know she is probably feeling.

You had felt the same way, after all; like a bomb had gone off, destroying the blissful nature of your privacy. It’s not quite as bad as all that, you know now, but at the time, it had seemed like the world was ending.

You take Beth’s arm, feeling somehow that it’s the right thing to do in light of this new information, but the words that come out of your mouth have nothing to do with that. You remain her mentor, asking her the questions that you always have after a mission, and she answers them dutifully.

Jacob and Emmett tail far behind but even with the distance put between you, you can hear the taunts and jibes thrown back and forth between father and son.

You really hope Beth can adapt quickly.


	9. Hormones [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Jacob has gone quiet, almost unbearably so compared to the indignant scorn you’d heard before, and it’s scary. He’s not looking at you anymore, instead standing in front of the window and seeming distant, and dread pools in your stomach._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> features pregnant!reader

It’s one of those rare days where you haven’t had a phone call from jail.

It’s rare, you think, that you don’t have to fork out money you don’t have to bail out the idiot who frequents your home for your amazing cooking skills.

(He’s around for more than that but right now you’re terrified and angry and the last thing you want to do is boost his ego, even if he’s not around to hear it.)

It’s going to be a long two minutes, waiting for the result on that stupid white stick.

Nothing seems to be able to distract from it either, not like calling Evie and accompanying her to pick up her brother would. It sits innocently on the counter beside the sink, on a bundle of white toilet paper, and what you wouldn’t give to fast forward so you can see the result, so you can get this nightmare over with.

There’s no doubt in your mind who the father is, and what you wouldn’t _give_ for it to be someone else, _any_ one else.

Jacob Frye is the last person you see as father-material, especially with the all trouble he keeps getting himself into. If it wasn’t for his bloody gang, you think, if he wasn’t so keen to prove himself against his rivals, _then_ things might be different.

If things were different, then you might not be so wary about _telling_ him that you’re pregnant.

(Maybe, you correct anxiously, because the result isn’t back yet and there’s still a chance you’re imagining the whole thing.)

You _really_ hope you’re imagining the whole thing.

You should call someone – a friend, Evie, _someone_ – but whenever you reach for the phone you’re always dialling Jacob’s number and your thumb always hovers over the green dial button, _always_. Inevitably, you find yourself tossing the phone aside and shaking your head, telling yourself that you can handle this alone, that you don’t need to call anyone.

You can _do_ this.

You leave the bathroom and immediately walk to the kitchen, rummaging through your freezer for the ice cream you keep hidden away in the back, sure that you’re going to need it soon and sure that you’ll be finishing off the whole tub tonight.

You find it and set it on the counter to soften a little, setting a spoon beside in preparation while you start to bustle around your small flat, digging out a throw from the cupboard and tucking it around your shoulders like a weary king. You _feel_ weary, after all, and exhausted and scared and alone and the list really goes on, and all you want is your ice cream and your favourite movie and to forget that you might be catering for two now.

Metaphorically speaking.

(Although it’s not metaphorical, is it? There might actually be _another person_ inside you. Yikes.)

You tell yourself Jacob wouldn’t answer his phone anyway.

It doesn’t make you feel any better.

You grab your ice cream and curl up on the sofa.

* * *

You must fall asleep because when you wake up your ice cream is no where in sight and Jacob Frye has let himself into your apartment.

“I wasn’t finished with that,” you mutter tiredly, yawning and stretching as you unfurl from your blanket burrito.

“Really,” muses Jacob, but there’s no sign of the trademark smirk that usually accompanies his smart-ass comments. “You like melted ice cream. I learn something new every day.”

After another yawn, you ask, “What are you doing here?”

He feigns a look of hurt. “I can’t decide to see my favourite person?”

You roll your eyes. “What do you _want_?”

He fidgets in his seat, frowns at the old cushion lying over your feet. He’s lost for words, you realise blearily, and it might just be the first time it’s ever happened in front of you.

“Jacob Frye,” you muse, and there’s a smirk on your face, “speechless. I must text Evie and let her know.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

You blink. In his hand, sticking out of a bundle of toilet roll, is the pregnancy test you’d left on the counter.

Your smirk drops from your face.

It’s _positive_.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, reaching over him for the little white stick. “ _Oh my god_.”

You can’t even form an answer to his question because you’re so amazed and terrified by the test, and you’re not sure if you’re supposed to be this nervous. How can you answer a question when you had barely begun to consider the possibility that you’d actually be _pregnant_?

“Oh my god.”

“Yes,” quips Jacob, “I do believe you’ve already said that.”

You say it again out of spite.

“I’m pregnant,” you murmur afterwards, awed. You thrust the test in his face and you should be amused by the way he quickly recoils, disgust on his features because – _hello_ – you _peed_ on the stupid thing, but you’re still too stunned to think of anything but the fact that you’re no longer alone in your body.

(Jeez, you think, make it sound like there’s a demon inhabiting your body or something.)

(Is that technically correct? Children _can_ be little demons, after all.)

“I don’t know if I would have told you, Jacob,” you say, and you force yourself to add, even after his frustrated glower and disbelieving scoff, “because I’ve only just found out.”

You’re offended that he thinks you’d be cruel enough to leave a test on the counter where he can easily find it – that hadn’t been your intention at all, after all, because you’re still not entirely sure what your intentions were in the first place – but he’s up and on his feet and stalking the length of your small flat before you can say anything else.

“You’ve only just found out,” he says aloud, and the disbelieving tone from his scoff carries on his words.

Annoyed, you say, “I took the test, like, an hour ago.”

You’re not sure, if you’re honest, because your unplanned nap has thrown you off a little, but it can’t have been _that_ long.

Jacob has gone quiet, almost unbearably so compared to the indignant scorn you’d heard before, and it’s scary. He’s not looking at you anymore, instead standing in front of the window and seeming distant, and dread pools in your stomach.

“Jacob?” you brave asking, getting up and letting the throw pool at your feet. You’re suddenly wary and unsure; should you go to him? Should you ask what’s wrong? Isn’t this supposed to be a good thing? Isn’t this supposed to be something to celebrate?

Finally, he says, “I can’t.”

Your heart sinks like a stone.

* * *

He’s disappeared but it’s okay – you’ve long decided you _don’t need him_ anyway.

He can be cowardly and ridiculous, he can leave you behind and take-off who cares where ( _you_ certainly don’t) and you can be as bitter and angry about it as you like because _hello_ , it’s not like _you_ have the option to just up and take off when _you_ ’re the one who has to carry this baby right the way through.

And right now, it’s seriously difficult.

It’s been _months_ and this baby is as restless and impatient as its father and it’s _frustrating_.

“Please stop,” you mutter, clutching the bathroom sink and feeling those same irritating tears stinging your eyes again. _Damn hormones_. “ _Please_ stop kicking me.”

Really, you shouldn’t have been as surprised as you were when he up and _left_ like the self-centred _jack-ass_ he is. It’s in his nature, after all, not to care about the consequences, about those he’s leaving behind, about the hurt feelings. As long as he has his gang, what else matters?

Except _you_ do. _You_ matter. And right now, you can’t do this alone.

(There’s only so much Evie can help with, after all, and she can’t replace the wayward father who _can’t_.)

“And what kind of a bloody excuse is _that_?” you mutter aloud, furiously, biting your lip as you’re hit with another wave of discomfort. “I can’t either and I don’t have the option to fucking _leave_!”

Stupid test, stupid Jacob Frye and his stupid voice. If you’d known this was going to happen, you’d have never let him see that test in the first place; you’d have been smarter about the whole thing. You’d have left town as soon as it showed positive. You wouldn’t have told him.

Hindsight is a _wonderful_ thing.

There’s a knock on your door, followed by whoever it is letting themselves in. A couple of seconds later, you hear Evie calling your name, and the rustling of plastic bags that hold your shopping.

“I’m in the bathroom,” you call back and then, muttered under your breath, “ _again_.”

“Everything okay?”

“Fine!”

Evie shouldn’t be the one asking those questions, Evie shouldn’t be the one running around after you and doing the things you don’t have the energy for anymore. She has as much a right to be here as Jacob does, this you know, because this child will be her niece or nephew, but it doesn’t change the fact that she’s _not_ one of the parents, and the aunt of the child _shouldn’t_ be doing all these things.

As nice as it is that she is, of course, and you really shouldn’t be complaining.

You trudge into the living room and lower yourself gently onto the sofa, drawing up the throw – the same throw because you don’t seem to have any others even though you’re sure you have _at least_ five in this flat somewhere – and settling against the cushions.

“Thank you again, Evie,” you say, as the other woman walks into the living room and throws herself onto the sofa beside you.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and then, voicing your own thoughts, “Someone has to.”

And even as annoyed as you are with him, as furious that he’s left you like this, your thoughts always stray to him; how is he? How are the Rooks? Has he been in jail lately?

One thing’s for sure, you think glumly, he’s probably fairing a lot better than you.

“Have you heard from him?” you ask aloud, because you can’t help it. You’re lonely and _there’s only so much Evie can do_. “Jacob.”

Evie pauses, then wordlessly shakes her head.

It answers the question and it doesn’t, but the answer is familiar and part of your norm now because Evie seems to tread carefully around any mention of him when she’s with you. She had been furious when you called and told her and then she’d come round with a fresh tub of ice cream and some sappy movies that had you sobbing your heart out over something completely different by the end of the night.

She hasn’t been able to get in touch with him. No one has.

“What do you think he’s doing?” you wonder, rubbing your arms against the chill in your home.

Evie immediately gets up and turns the dial, anticipating your needs in the way the father of your child should be. When she comes back, she shrugs, settling against the cushions.

“He’s Jacob,” she answers. “Something stupid, no doubt.”

That makes you laugh, at least, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. The two of you can mock him all you like but that doesn’t change the fact that you want him here. It doesn’t change the fact that he _should_ be here.

She stays with you, at least, and gets up to answer the door at the back of ten when you’re drowsy and just drifting off to sleep.

Loud voices startle you awake, one of them scarily recognisable, and if you didn’t feel inflated like a damn balloon, you’d be on your feet faster than you can blink. As it is, though, you have to settle of sitting up a little on the sofa and trying to peer around the corner to the door.

He comes to you. The door slams.

“Jacob,” Evie calls furiously. “You can’t –“

He freezes when he sees you, dropping the duffel bag in his hands to the floor. Evie nearly bumps into him and then nearly trips on the bag when she tries to pass him.

After months of silence, after months of not seeing him, the first thing out of his mouth is, “You’ve gotten big.”

Flatly, you say, “Thanks Jacob.”

“No, that’s not what I – Shit, I didn’t –“

“You need to leave, Jacob,” Evie says, at the same time you ask, “Why do you have a bag?”

“I’m not leaving,” Jacob says, and he crosses the room to the take the seat Evie vacated to answer the door. His hand lands on your knee, gently, soothingly. His voice is just as soft as he says, “I’m staying right here.”

A month ago, you’d have kicked him right back out again. Now, the only thing you can do is burst into tears.

Jacob looks absolutely terrified.

“What did I do?” he asks Evie, and then, desperately, “What do I do?”

“You were born,” Evie snaps, drawing you close to her in a tight hug. “Move.”

Stupid hormones, you think, embarrassing you like this. Stupid Jacob Frye, making you like this in the first place.

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” demands Evie flatly, with a stern look in her brother’s direction.

“Yes,” returns her brother easily. “Right here on this couch.”

“That’s not what I meant, Jacob.”

“I _know_ what you meant, Evie.”

“Will you two please stop?” you interrupt around a sob and your vision is blurry and your nose is running and really, all you want now to be left alone to _sleep_. You press gently at Evie, pushing her away from you as you struggle to pull yourself off the sofa and as soon as you get your feet under you you’re swept off them by Jacob, carried through to your bedroom as if you weigh nothing at all when you’re sure you _must_ weight a ton.

You really just want to be left alone because you’re sure the twins are going to keep fighting even if you nap, but as you start to tug the duvet around your shoulders, Jacob kicks off his boots and slides in next to you. Your sniffling ceases for a moment.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m helping,” he answers.

“Jacob,” Evie warns from the doorway. “I don’t think _this_ is helping.”

“How would you know? Are you jealous, Evie?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.”

“I came here to get away from your two,” you cut in sternly, feeling a little more in control of your emotions. “If you’re not going to shut up, then both of you can leave.”

A beat of silence.

“I’ll be in the living room,” Evie says quietly, “if you need me.”

“I’ll be right here,” says Jacob, lounging against the headboard and crossing his legs at the ankles.

Through the night, you dazedly wake up to find you’ve snuggled closer to Jacob in your sleep. His hand is on your belly rubbing soothing circles, and it’s the first restful night’s sleep you’ve had in weeks.


	10. Storm [Evie Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _She invites you to her train car after that, to talk with her some more – about you, about your life before the Rooks, about your life before it changed irreversibly._
> 
>  
> 
> _About your life before you chose to dive into the Thames and save her life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by the wonderful Kebeo on tumblr, who also made these [fabulous fake screenshots](http://lettiescorner.tumblr.com/post/152762141743/look-whos-back-here-are-some-fake-screenshots) for it!

The first time you meet her, you’re drenched to the bone and panting for air, and you don’t know who she is at all. All you know is what you saw and what you saw was enough to throw you into action.

She watches you warily, eyeing you up and down and her eyes lingering, you’re sure, on the many patches and quick fixes on your old coat. She doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest that she’s bleeding; a cut on her forehead, oozing slightly, and a red splotch on her nice coat, a stain that’s growing bigger and bigger by the second.

You’re about to reach for her, a shy and concerned smile on your face, but a voice disrupts the careful silence around the two of you, frantically shouting her name.

“ _Evie_!”

You back up slowly, suddenly surrounded by coats of green and scarves of yellow, at least half a dozen men and women armed to the teeth and frowning worriedly at the young woman whose life you saved. They watch you warily and respectfully, and it’s then you start to wonder if the woman you’ve saved is a princess or a queen or something.

(She _could_ be – she’s _beautiful_ , so you wouldn’t really be surprised – but her outfit and weapons say otherwise.)

“Jacob,” she grumbles, shoving lightly at the large figure that’s swept her into a bone-crushing hug. “Get _off_.”

 _Brother_ , you think immediately, when he looks at you; they have the same dark hair and nose, the same mischievous look about them. He looks you up and down the same way Evie did and you swallow nervously, shifting on the wet stone under your knees. Your hair is still dripping and you’re still panting slightly, wondering when would be a good time to get to your feet and leave this awkward situation.

“Right,” you murmur, and your voice is a little croaky, “I’ll just… uh…”

Jacob gives you an appraising look before reaching for his sister and helping her to her feet. No one offers you the same courtesy. Less than elegantly, you drag yourself to your feet, brushing dirt and dust from your soaking trousers and ratty coat.

“You’re supposed to dodge the bullet,” Jacob says aloud, peering at his sister and wearing an easy smirk. You’re not sure what kind of sibling relationship these two have, but you’re pretty sure a brother should be a little more worried about their sister getting _shot_ and tumbling into the _Thames_.

“ _Jacob_.”

Evie’s quiet and pained voice draws your eyes and you just barely manage to stop yourself from going to her. Green jackets block her from you, crowding around the two of them and keeping her from your sight. You shouldn’t feel as disappointed as you do – you’ve just _met_ the woman, after all! – but you can’t quite deny the feeling when it creeps up on you.

You can do nothing else but walk away from the group, returning to London’s alleys where you belong.

* * *

You hear the whispers now – mutters that before you’d ignored – and you learn her name soon after saving her life.

 _Frye_.

You start to pay more attention to the Rooks now – honestly, a gang is a gang, you’d thought before, what did it matter what colour of jacket they wore when they all looked at you with scorn? – and maybe part of you hopes that one day you’ll see her again.

You eavesdrop on conversations, hoping to hear something about her – some _good_ news, something to tell you that you didn’t drag her from the Thames just for her to _die_ an hour later…

It’s raining in London, like it always seems to be, and you wring your hands together to try and heat them up against the cold. Your hands are so numb and cold that it’s almost impossible to stop their shaking – how are you supposed to lift a purse from some unsuspecting victim when you can hardly keep your hands steady?

“ _Christ_ ,” you mutter, blowing on the reddened flesh, hoping your shaky but warm breath can help where your clothes can’t. How many holes are there in your jacket now? One of the pockets is falling off – who knows when you’ll be able to steal a needle and thread next!

“You’re a difficult woman to track down,” muses a voice at the mouth of the alley, startling you into awareness. You’re trembling and rubbing at your arms – you’d be completely useless in a fight right now. You can hardly stand you’re so cold.

Jacob Frye cuts an intimidating figure, strolling into the alley with an air of indifference. He glances about himself at the alley you have come to call home for the last few days – a copper had kicked you out of the last one, the one you’d _just_ gotten comfortable in – and kicks a glass bottle aside with his foot.

“Not mine,” you mumble, your voice quivering. He shoots you a quizzical look and you explain, “That was there when I got here.”

“Right,” he says. He eyes you again, up and down like he did on the banks of the Thames when you pulled Evie – Miss Frye, you correct yourself, you don’t _know_ the woman, who are you to be so familiar with her name? – and again there’s that appraising look. He nods to himself and starts to leave, throwing over his shoulder, “Come on then.”

You don’t move. “What?”

His stride falters and he says, “I’m tired of my sister moping about the train,” like it’s the only explanation he needs to give.

You swallow. “ _What_?”

Vaguely irritated, he snaps, “You want a change of clothes and a decent meal or not?”

You follow him without another word.

* * *

In hindsight, that was probably _stupid_.

He could have killed you – and probably gotten away with it, now that you’ve heard about the ins and outs of his _job_.

“Assassins,” a Rook had told you straight-facedly, without a single hint of mockery. You learned later that his name was Bert. “Don’t ask too much about it. Do as you’re told and you’ll be fine.”

 _Jesus_ , you’d thought, shrugging into the coat – it was warm and _new_ and cosier than anything you’d ever owned in your _life_ – but part of you had started to consider that your loyalty had just been bought. Maybe not traditionally, with a decent wage or a pay-off when he found you, but with warm food and clothes and a place to stay.

You want to feel dismayed by it all – you’d heard the rumours about the Blighters, nearly chased from London by the Rooks, about their cruel nature towards those weaker than them – but Jacob Frye and his Rooks are kind to you, helpful and concerned, and they’re banding together like one big family and getting some food and warm blankets for you.

It’s odd, to be the centre of attention like this, after so long on the streets by yourself. People barely spare you a glance when you’re huddled against a wall, freezing and clutching to what scraps of warmth you can get. Having so many people caring for you, _recognising_ you for the _selfless_ act you’d performed when you’d dived into the Thames and pulled Evie Frye from the water…

It’s strangely _nice_.

She wanders into the dining car on their train later in the evening, drawn in by the raucous noise and cheering, and you’re huddled in a dozen blankets and dozing in the booth nearest door. It’s nice to be warm and wanted, nice to feel safe – safe like you haven’t felt in years – and you wonder if she realises who you are.

She breezes into the car, eyes finding her brother, and it’s her voice that has you piping up and peering around the booth to see her. She’s her back to you, chewing out her brother and scolding him for the noise, and it’s Jacob that alerts her to your presence. He catches your eye as you curiously watch, still unused to their conversations while the Rooks around you dismiss it casually. He rolls his eyes and smirks and Evie turns.

You wave half-heartedly at her, a small flickering hope in your chest –

Evie storms out of the car without so much as a blink in your direction.

* * *

You avoid her and she avoids you.

It’s odd, if you’re honest with yourself, because since pulling her from the Thames, bleeding and gasping, she’s been all you can think about. And now… well, now she won’t even look at you. Jacob seems particularly put out by the turn of events, sulking at the pub most nights and being harsher than usual with straying Blighters trying to make fools of themselves.

It puts you off trying to talk to her.

Every time you find yourself alone in a room with her, or bumping into her on your way out of the train, you duck your head and stay quiet, telling yourself you need to _leave_ immediately. The Rooks have become like your family now, an acceptance you’re not sure you’ve ever felt in your life, but Evie Frye remains distant.

Until she isn’t anymore.

She hovers in the doorway for a good few minutes until finally striding forward, stopping before you and staring down at where you sit with stern concentration. You cannot speak for how parched you’ve suddenly become, nervously fidgeting in place until Evie seems to nod.

“I may need assistance,” she says eventually.

You nod and hope you don’t seem too eager. The last thing you need is her finding out that you’ve been fantasising about her approaching you, _speaking_ to you (she only ever says ‘ _hello_ ’ in your daydreams, so already this is much better than anything you could ever imagine).

“You’re my boss,” you say instead, hoping to be polite and dutiful.

She looks troubled by your declaration but fires off into a brief explanation of what she needs you to do; you have to steal something for her, some extremely valuable and important documents. She tells you Jacob and the Rooks are going to create a distraction while you sneak inside, Evie at your back in case of any inside dangers.

“Sounds complicated,” you muse aloud, pondering.

“My brother and I are very good at what we do,” she hastens to say. “You have my word that no harm will befall you.”

“What about you?”

The words are out before you can stop them, said quietly and nervously as memories of a body tumbling into the Thames comes to mind, as thoughts of a blood soaked shirt and wet hair haunt you, of diving into cold and dirty water to save a person you’d never met.

Evie stills, surprised. You watch her keenly, the slackening of her jaw in her shock, the hardening of her eyes and the tick of her jaw as her mask slips back into place. You wonder what she’s thinking, what thought suddenly overtook her that she had to hide the emotions showing on her face.

“I can look after myself,” she says firmly. “My brother will answer any other questions you have.”

She stalks away again, leaving you on your armchair and feeling lost in her storm.

* * *

There’s four or five other Rooks loitering nearby, peering up at the building curiously. They mutter amongst themselves about the Blighters they can see stalking the premises, about the difficulty it will be getting in and out alive.

“Thank you,” you murmur in return, low under your breath so they don’t hear you, “for the vote of confidence.”

“Ready?” asks Jacob suddenly, clapping you on the back jovially.

“No,” you answer honestly, “but let’s go.”

“Alright,” he says with a nod. Over his shoulder, he starts to bark orders and Evie stands still as stone and as silent.

It’s easy to regret the choice to come here when she seems to hate you so much.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Jacob had told you last night. “She’s just too proud, holding on to lessons she shouldn’t be.”

“You don’t seem to have that problem,” you pointed out.

He scoffed. “I had better things to do than listen to my father warble on about _stealth_ and _knowledge_.”

“Like what?”

He smirked. “I don’t think you need me to answer that question.”

Evie approaches silently, in a manner that makes you envious of her skill, and not for the first time you wonder why she’s asked for you; no doubt her own thievery skills are a hundred times better than yours, no matter how good you think you are.

“Ready?” she asks, parroting her brother’s words.

Instead of answering honestly, you nod. “Let’s go.”

* * *

She’s quiet as you sneak through the building, listening to the sounds of the brawl in the courtyard.

“We have to move fast,” she directs, “my brother can brawl for London but even he grows tired.” There’s a hint of a smile on her face as she looks at you. “Don’t tell him I said that.”

It’s the first sign you’ve had that she doesn’t completely despise you and you latch on with both hands.

It’s easy to find the room, easy to pick the lock and sneak in, and Evie has this strange sense that she doesn’t tell you about that allows her to locate quickly the documents and artefacts you need. She moves quickly and silently through the office, disturbing little as she moves, and you’re struck by the realisation that she doesn’t need you here at all.

“Miss Frye,” you say, perhaps not as quietly as you ought to, “why did you ask me to accompany you?”

Evie freezes where she’s pocketing a small notebook.

After a pregnant pause, she says, “It was a request of my brother’s.”

Frowning, you ask, “Why?”

She shakes her head, clearly as lost by the idea as you are, “I haven’t the foggiest. He seems convinced that –“

She looks to the door violently fast, reaching for a weapon while you spin on the spot. The door is thrown open, banging harshly against the wall, and you can’t see anything but the pistol aimed at your face for a good few minutes.

There’s a shot but no pain.

Evie stands to the side, her own pistol in hand, smoke trailing upwards from the muzzle, and a determined look on her face.

Your mouth goes dry.

“Our time is up,” she says grimly.

“Time to go,” you agree readily, past the lump in your throat and the pounding of your heart. You’re reminded all too suddenly of dragging her from the Thames, of looking at her on that riverbank and being blown away by her.

 _Shit_.

* * *

After that, she seems to seek you out more often.

She finds you in your quiet spots while you lounge with a book, while you’re out on the streets with the Rooks, while you’re out walking alone. You wonder if she’s just worried – if she wants to watch out for you like Jacob watches out for the other Rooks – but it quickly becomes more than that.

She _confides_ in you, more than she does in her brother or Mr Green or anyone else on the train. She tells you about Pieces of Eden, about a war fought in the shadows, and about her brother too content with the way things are.

“The Rooks have done wonderful things for London,” she hastens to say, “don’t think I’m ungrateful to him.”

“I wouldn’t ever,” you murmur, looking away from the intensity in her eyes and instead staring at the tea in your cup.

Smiling gratefully, she reaches for your hand, more forward than you expect from her. She seems to realise what she’s done too late, her cheeks reddening as she tugs her hands away. You stop her, squeezing her fingers gently, channelling the forwardness that seemed to take her before.

“Good,” she says demurely, with a small nod.

She invites you to her train car after that, to _talk_ with her some more – about _you_ , about your life before the Rooks, about your life before it changed irreversibly.

About your life before you chose to dive into the Thames and save her life.

You’re not sure when everything changes – the conversation is light-hearted at first, full of jokes and smiles and laughter, and then suddenly your eyes are lidded and she’s talking breathlessly.

It’s unclear who made the move first but your lips are on hers and she’s pulling you back to her bed, pulling impatiently at the buttons of your jacket while you struggle to undo her many belts. There’s no chance of the two of you being interrupted, you think, not when the Rooks are so preoccupied in the dining car with their drink and their boss.

Clothes are strewn across the floor and over chairs and the desk, boots left at the door with weapons hastily discarded on top of them.

The door isn’t locked but you’re sure if anyone tries to find you, they’ll have enough common sense to know not to disturb the two of you.


	11. Blood [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _There’s a cruelty to you now, a hard edge replacing what once was soft and kind, and when the blackout comes, when the red descends on your vision, you go easily._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT NOTE IS IMPORTANT!  
> The **trigger warnings** listed in the tags - attempted suicide and self-harm - apply to _this chapter_. Please take care when reading!

“You should kill me,” you tell him on one of your better days, as he’s washing the blood from your hands and steadfastly ignoring what you’ve done. “You should kill me.”

“No,” he says softly, sternly. “I won’t do that.”

* * *

No one knows yet – Jacob is keeping it all hush hush, so quiet that even his sister hasn’t heard about it – but your penchant for violence has some of the Rooks looking at you strangely, avoiding you wherever they can. That used to bother you, way back when you still felt ordinary, when you were plagued with haunting thoughts – because that’s how it feels, you think, like you’re being haunted by a ghost; a darker, less pleasant version of yourself.

It’s a vulture on your shoulder, feeding off your insecurities and your worries, whispering in your ear and taunting you. It wins on the bad days and triumphs on the awful days, when there’s blood on your hands and red in your vision, and a dead body below you that never stood a chance.

Something is very wrong with you, you and Jacob both know it, but he doesn’t seem to want to do anything about it.

And you’re worried, as much as him, perhaps even more, and though he tries to remain nonchalant with you, you’ve seen his lingered gazes and concern. How long will it be before things becomes too muddled for you? How long before it’s not just the Blighters suffering from your rage? How long before you’re turning on your fellow Rooks? Before you’re turning on Jacob?

He takes your hand and kisses you soundly, dispelling the dangerous thoughts for now, and your sleep is restful that night.

* * *

“You should kill me,” you say quietly, because it’s all you can see now and all you can hear; the blood and the screams. They’re afraid of you, all of them. “You _need_ to kill me.”

Jacob shakes his head. “I can’t do that.”

* * *

You start to laugh in the middle of fights.

There’s no exhilaration from the bloodshed in your veins, nothing like what Jacob says he feels in the middle of a fistfight. Your laugh is crazed and manic, your fingers clawed as they grasp the lapels of a red jacket, and your kills are not quick. These screams should haunt you, would’ve haunted you before, but now they make you laugh harder, make you stab faster.

Jacob’s shouting your name and arms are pulling you from the body, shaking you lightly as they try to break you out of your trance. There’s blood on your face and on your hands and a frenzied smile and if the Rooks seem uneased by you in the aftermath, you pretend not to notice.

Everyone loses their grip sometimes, after all, isn’t that what Jacob had told you? It will pass and everything will be fine.

* * *

“Something isn’t right,” Evie says, and there’s no anger in her voice, only unease. “You need to do something, Jacob.”

“Like what?”

Your lips quirk with a wicked smirk when she speaks.

“You know what.”

* * *

There’s a cruelty to you now, a hard edge replacing what once was soft and kind, and when the blackout comes, when the red descends on your vision, you go easily.

Voices shout and scream, guns are fired and you feel none of it. When you wake, you’re covered in blood and surrounded by bodies, wearing green and red jackets alike. You’re largely unharmed, save for grazes on your arms and legs, cuts on your stomach and chest, but most of the blood on your person isn’t your own.

When you return to the train, it’s the first time you’ve seen Jacob look disturbed.

The madness has dissipated for now, leaving you with only a weary realisation that something is very wrong, and when you whisper your wish to him tiredly, he shakes his head silently in refusal.

 _You should kill me_ , you whisper into your pillow when Jacob leaves. _Kill me_.

* * *

“You _need_ to kill me, Jacob,” you tell him desperately because how long has it been since you’ve been yourself now?

* * *

The Rooks are afraid of you now, unwilling to join you on patrols or on the train, and it does nothing to help you. You don’t know what’s wrong with you, can’t understand it, but the more alone you feel, the more crazed you become. You want to stop it in its tracks, want to tear your heart from your chest and stop everything _now_ because no one else seems to want to.

There are cuts in your thigh, angry and bleeding red and it makes no sense. How can your blood still be red when you think your heart is black now?

You’re crying, lost and alone and _mad_ , and the sheets of your bed are stained with your blood and your hands are slick with it.

Jacob finds you like that later, the knife abandoned on the now red mattress and your finger nails scratching at your arms, furiously and desperately, the beginning of a cut on your throat where you’d tried and couldn’t go through with it.

* * *

Your smile is wicked and cruel, your hands clutching the still warm body and the blood-soaked jacket that was once green. You’re staring down the barrel of a gun, meeting the tormented eyes of its holder.

“Are you going to kill me, Jacob?”

* * *

He doesn’t come into the room but he visits every day and _watches_.

You shake terribly and rock back and forth, and it’s all you can feel, all day every day, blood on your hands and in your hair. You _miss it_ , long for it in the quiet moments and dream of it in your sleep. You wake with a smile on your face, remembering the dreams that inch out of reach upon wakening. Sometimes you imagine it’s Jacob or Evie, your hands buried in their chests as you rip out their hearts and some part of you hates when you wake up without their blood all over you.

You shouted and raged at him on his first visit, slammed your fists against the door until they bled and didn’t stop until he left. You can’t calm, not in this place – an _asylum_ – and you manage to wrench your gaze to where he watches you, sad and guilty.

 _You should have killed me_ , you think but the words leave your lips too, a snarl that seeps with hatred.

He doesn’t visit after that.


	12. If I Knew Then (I'd Fall in Love) [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Be careful,” Evie warns as you leave. “He didn’t deserve you then and he doesn’t deserve you now.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by fryxe on tumblr!
> 
> [also a personal favourite of mine!]

“You used to love me,” he says softly.

“I was young then,” you reply, trying to sound casual. The hurt look in his eyes, fleeting and disturbing and so out of place tells you it’s worked. You can’t stop yourself from continuing, “Young and stupid.”

“Yes,” he agrees after a moment, turning his eyes towards the beer bottle he nurses in his hand. “I suppose we both were.”

* * *

Your hood is damp with the rain, your boots swimming in water, and even though you’ve just arrived in this horrid city, you _know_ you’re going to hate it. Nothing to compares to Edinburgh, you think as you trudge along, nothing compares to the friends you had there, the family you’d found there. Nothing compares to the loss you feel at having to leave them, the heavy aching of your heart at the loss that prompted your removal from their Order and your return to Crawley.

To _London_.

 _Urgh_.

George was livid when you’d arrived in Crawley, pacing the length of his study and muttering angrily to himself. Laid out on his desk was a letter you could easily read from the chair you settled in – a letter written in an elegant scrawl and signed by Evie Frye.

You’d known what he was about to ask before he’d even opened his mouth.

You hate how easily, how _quickly_ , you’d agreed to come to this wretched city.

The people get in your way, they _don’t apologise_ for cutting you off or bumping into you, it hasn’t stopped raining since you exited the station, and already you’ve nearly been run over by a horse-drawn carriage driven, you think, by a _maniac_.

“Mr Green has a curio shop in Whitechapel,” George had told you. “I shall write at once and inform him of your imminent arrival.”

The shop is _deserted_.

It’s dark and locked; peering through the window shows no signs of recent use. Your eye twitches with your anger and you grit your teeth as you spin on your heel, immediately deciding you’ve had _enough_ of this stupid city.

 _I’m going home_ , you think to yourself _, home to Edinburgh, to my friends and my family and to my city where I know the streets and the rain doesn’t make me miserable!_

You’re regretting not taking Beth up on her offer sooner, you think; she’d promised to hide you from the Council, to shield you from their wrath. She’d been more upset than you were when you’d received the letter from Crawley, the summons back to England.

“Ye cannae go,” she’d cried, the letter clutched tightly in her hand. “We need ye here!”

Stevie had sarcastically told her that she’d better write to the council and _tell_ them that, and an argument had ensued that made you laugh and cry all at once and distracted you momentarily from the fact that your life was about to change.

 _Again_.

“We’ll hide ye!” she’d said next.

“Oh, aye,” Stevie had said, shaking his head, “because we know _so_ many places to hide an assassin from a summons!”

“Get it up ye,” Beth had replied, smacking him on the head. “They’re takkin’ our friend fae us! You could _try_ and seem upset by it!”

“I’m plenty upset,” said Stevie and your tears had started anew before anything else could be said.

You hate yourself for that show of weakness now; Edinburgh had made you into many things, a weakling is not one of them. You’d learned your lessons well, bore your scars from your mistakes with pride, and a broken heart is something you learned long ago to live with.

You’d learned long ago to stitch yourself back together, the wounds on your skin and the wounds on your heart.

* * *

You find a quiet pub to drown your sorrows in, idling at the back of the bar as you trace the lip of the bottle in front of you with your forefinger. You’ve realised you can’t just up and leave London, no matter how much you’d like to; Beth’s idea to hide you, no matter how tempting it is, just isn’t feasible. The Master Assassin rank you share with your friend is still young, not even a year, and it wouldn’t be difficult for a more experienced man or woman to hunt you down and demand answers.

Or your life.

Though you’re _pretty_ sure that wouldn’t happen. It’s not technically turning on them, after all, just a reluctance to return to a life, to return to a person, that almost ruined you years ago.

There’s a man across the bar, wearing a green jacket and swaying far too much on his bar stool to be sober. His last drink should have been three bottles ago but the bartender, with flighty, fidgeting and downright _suspicious_ looks to the door, keeps setting them in front of him.

“Paid for by a friend, mate,” you hear him say every time.

“Which… _friend_ …?” slurs the man in green.

He never gets an answer.

You should have left the pub an hour ago, when you’d finished the first bottle in front of you and satisfied your need for a pity party. You should have thanked and paid the bartender and drawn your hood, stepping miserably onto the slick cobblestones underfoot and continuing your search. London’s only so big, after all, and if you remember the Frye Twins as well as you think, _eventually_ they’ll cause some sort of havoc.

Instead there’s a second bottle in front of you, untouched, and you’re watching the door as much as the bartender is, _waiting_.

Finally, after watching the man in green slump forward on the table, drooling all over the surface while a free hand spills the full bottle by his head, you flag down the bartender. He sidles towards your end of the bar with a grin that’s too shaky for your liking; his hands are trembling, despite his attempts to disguise it. He’s cleaning a tankard with a dirty washcloth as he leans against the dark and sticky wood under your elbows. You fix him with a curious stare, maintaining a friendly air until you’re ready to expose your intentions, and his hands never once still their movements. Over his shoulder, the man in green snores loudly, hair damp with beer.

“What can I get ya, lass?” asks the bartender. He reminds you of Stevie in Edinburgh, large and intimidating but ever so friendly.

You smile. “Nothing but some company.” You gesture towards the passed out drunk in green with your chin; you can see him clearly over the bartender’s shoulder. “Think he’s interested?”

“Nah, nah,” replies the bartender. He looks nervous again, lowering his voice and leaning in close to your face. “I’ve got ma instructions, lass. Best you be leavin’ fer the night.”

“What kind of instructions?” You try to keep your voice light and airy. “He’s not in any trouble is he?”

“Struck up wi’ the wrong sort, he did,” confides the bartender. “Whitechapel might be Rook territory now but the Blighters ain’t done wi’ us, no sir, they ain’t.” You frown, mouthing the words; _Rook, Blighter_ … codenames? The bartender elaborates, seeing your puzzled look, “That there,” he punctuates the words with a thumb over his shoulder towards the drunken slob drooling over his worktop, “is a Rook. Flown outta the nest that one has.”

“You said this was Rook territory,” you say. “This _is_ his nest, no?”

“Not without the rest of his flock it ain’t.” The bartender side-eyes the door. “Look, lass, if ye know what’s good fer ye, ye’ll leave now. Before the Blighters get here.”

You take a tentative sip of the lukewarm beer set in front of you, your lip curling in distaste. The bartender sets his tankard and dirty cloth down in front of you, eyeing your expression with irritation.

“Look here,” he says, “I’m just tryin’ to make ma livin’, a’right?”

You push aside the bottle by your hand. “So’s he.”

The man in green – the _Rook_ , you know now – barely stirs as you make your way towards him. You shake his shoulder, gently at first and growing more and more rough as he does nothing but grin dumbly in his sleep. The bartender appears torn between stopping you and running for the door; you try to purposely angle yourself to show him the multitude of weapons you carry.

“Oi,” you hiss in the Rook’s ear, giving him a rough pat between the shoulder blades. “Wake up!”

“ _Whassat_?”

You shake your head with a huff – Assassins, you think wryly, defenders of the weak and drunk. You throw his arm over your shoulders as the door is thrown open and heavy boots stomp into the quiet space. The bartender makes himself scarce, you note, but not a moment before accepting a handful of notes thrust into his hand by a small man in a top hat.

There are four of them, three men and a woman, wearing tweed coats of blood red and brandishing knives in your direction. They crack their knuckles, sliding brass knuckles over their fingers and grinning wickedly at you, rolling their shoulders and throwing their heads from side to side. The brass glints in the gaslight and you cringe.

 _A hit with those things is going to bloody hurt_.

“Outta the way,” growls the largest. “We’ll just take the little bird and be off.”

 _Ah. Blighters_. _Gangs. Lovely_.

You look at the Rook over your shoulder, considering; you don’t even really know who’s side you’re _on_ , for a matter. Maybe this drunk Rook is an evil bastard sober, no matter how adorably dumb his slobbering smile is as he grins up at you. There’s beer damp in his hair and on the sleeve of his jacket and staining the white of his shirt. The tails of the yellow ascot knotted around his neck are stuck to his cheek.

He rolls drunken eyes towards the Blighters as you shift your weight from side to side, still considering. This has nothing to even _do_ with you –

“Y _ou_ … bas _tards_ be’er leave, ay!” slurs the Rook, stumbling from his stool. His legs turn to jelly as he tries to stand and he topples to the floor, waving a finger in the air and shouting, “Misser Frye’ll… he’ll… er…”

 _Aaaand now this has_ everything _to do with you_.

With an annoyed sigh that comes _only_ from someone mentioning Jacob Frye – this is an ingrained reaction, you’ve found, even after years apart you still react the same way – you activate the mechanism of your hidden blade and reach into your coat for a knife.

The Blighters react immediately to your armament, charging forward as one unit, and it takes everything in you to remain calm. The sight of four extremely intimidating Blighters charging at you _might_ make you feel like a tiny bug under their boot, but this tiny bug is _armed_ and ready to fight back.

(Even if your weapons seem like toothpicks in comparison.)

You’re bloodied and bruised and _losing_ when he steps through the door, six Rooks at his back and a smug smirk on his face. You were _right_ : brass knuckles pack a fucking punch (pardon the pun). You’re pressed against the sticky bar, the edge of the counter digging painfully into the small of your back as you’re forced to lean almost _impossibly_ far. There’s an arm over your throat and a hand forcing your gauntlet onto the table; warm, gasping breaths puff over your face and you wrinkle your nose in disgust.

“Christ,” you manage to gasp, wrenching this way and that, hating yourself for being unable to hold your own. “How much garlic did you fucking _eat_?”

Your lips splits with the force of his punch. The drunken Rook, still on the ground and looking very much like he’s about to pass out again at any second, hisses in sympathy.

“No fun ‘at,” he says, and then, with a half-assed salute to the newcomers. “’ay boss!”

The Blighters still, looking over their shoulders with apprehensive expressions.

“Nigel,” greets Jacob Frye, sounding thoroughly amused. His eyes rake over you at the bar, over the Blighter holding you down. They rest at last on the small woman bleeding out at their feet; the one opponent you’d managed to take down before being completely overwhelmed. You can’t quite tell if you’re being appraised or not; you think his eyes darken in realisation upon seeing your gauntlet, though if he recognises anything else about you he doesn’t say. “Who’s your friend?”

You’d _like_ to be offended – if you’d met in any other situation, you _would_ be – but now’s not the time.

“No clue,” says Nigel, helped to his feet by another two Rooks and escorted to the door. “She’s nice though, Misser Frye.”

“I can see that.” The door swings shut as Nigel vacates the premises. You watch Jacob look over you, a frown tugging at his lips as familiarity flares. Blood fills your mouth with a coppery taste, trailing down your chin and onto the Blighter’s black ascot, and no one moves for a long time. Finally, Jacob says, “Shall we then?”

Hands release your gauntlet enough for you to tug it free, swinging upright with the blade and catching the Blighter pinning you down in the cheek. He backs away with a roar as you lift your leg and kick him in the side, darting forward and ending his life with the shout still rising in his throat.

“Stop, stop, stop,” cries a voice behind you, thin and reedy. Weapons clatter to the blood-soaked floor. “Please, Mr Frye…”

“What does your boss want with Nigel?” Jacob demands, crowding into the cowardly Blighter as across the bar the other yells his insults and condemns the fool for talking. “Talk now or I’ll see to it that you never speak again.” He pauses; the hidden blade in his gauntlet rests against the Blighter’s pulse point. The silence stretches on. “Perhaps that’s what you want…”

“No, _no_ ,” whimpers the man. “He just wanted an example made, that’s all. I swear! We was just supposed to scare him –“

“He’s lying.”

You’re not sure what it is that prompts you to speak up, to condemn this man more than his friend already has, but while you’re sitting on a table dabbing at your lip with a scarf you’ve found thrown over the back of a chair, the words spill free and interrupt his panicked yammering. You hiss between your teeth as you prod at your lip, frowning at the blood staining the light blue fabric and oddly content that you’ve succeeded in one half of your mission.

Jacob can lead you to Evie, you think, and Evie can tell you their plans and you can write to George and tell him _everything’s under control_ and _voila_! You can go home to Edinburgh; done and dusted.

“ _Is_ he?” asks Jacob. There’s an odd glee to his voice. “Seems you really don’t care for your voice-box at all, do you? That’s a shame.”

“We know he’s close to you!” the man all but shrieks. “We’d heard he’d know things about the Rooks – rotations, plans…”

“Your boss still thinks Whitechapel can be reclaimed,” muses the Assassin. A Rook steps close to you, taking the scarf from your hands and dousing it in whiskey retrieved from the bar. He presses the sodden fabric to your cuts and doesn’t wince at your flinch and hiss of renewed pain.

“I know now it can’t be, Mr Frye,” whispers the Blighter. “Sorry we even tried.”

Jacob drags the Blighter from the bar, tossing him to the sticky and bloody floor instead. He scrambles to get back up, boots slipping in the dark crimson fluid, hands coated in it as he uses the bodies of his fallen brothers to his advantage.

“Tell him that,” says Jacob, with a dark look.

“He- He won’t believe me,” mutters the man with wide eyes, backing away, eyes darting wildly from side to side as the Rooks begin to prowl forward. You watch it all curiously, thanking the Rook tending your injuries with a demure and grateful thank you. He says nothing, nods in your direction as he reaches into his jacket for a pistol, adding his own threat to the room.

“Convince him,” orders Jacob. “If you can do that, perhaps there’s a place for a coward like you amongst our ranks.”

The door slams after him, the shouts of the last Blighter following him out. “You ain’t ever gonna be welcome in this city again!” he shouts. “Hear me, ay? I’ll kill ya myself!”

Jacob’s blade is quick; you hardly realise what’s happened until the blood starts to seep and pour. The cut is precise and deep, a tear in the skin that’s hardly noticeable until there’s so much _red_.

“Shut up,” is all Jacob says, as the Blighter’s feet give out and he drops to his knees, hands jerky as they reach for his neck and eyes glassy as they search for a way out – for _help_.

 _Well_ , you think. _There are more similarities between Edinburgh and London than I thought_.

He still walks with conviction, you find, still with a heavy stomp and a swagger, but unlike years ago, when your feelings for him outweighed any control you had over yourself, now it does nothing but make you survey him with a raised eyebrow. He seems to find this reaction odd, looking you up and down with something alike satisfaction and confusion.

 _If he asks me to join the Rooks, so help me_ …

“And what’s your place in all this?” asks Jacob, approaching you leisurely. You push off the table and stand straighter, adjusting your clothes and gauntlet. “Just a good Samaritan doing her daily?”

It really _is_ insulting that he doesn’t recognise you. Evie would have, you think. Evie was and is (you _hope_ ) your friend; if anyone would be able to see the old you now, it’ll be her. You’re not sure if you should be worried that you’re that unrecognisable, that you’ve changed _that_ much since leaving Crawley four years ago.

He did this, you know, as Jacob stands before you, head cocked to the side and waiting for answers. There’s that same insufferable smirk on his face, the _very same_ that you’d hoped he might have outgrown by now. How silly of you to think that your leaving to Edinburgh would encourage him to _grow up_. It doesn’t seem to have done anything.

Your voice is deadpan as you tell him, “George wants updates.”

He looks you up and down again, lingering on your face, meeting your eyes and holding your stare for a long time. You shouldn’t feel as gratified as you do he stumbles back a step, his mouth forming words but giving no voice to them, and it’s with dawning horror across his features that you realise he’s figured it out.

He breathes your name and you can’t help it – you grin. He sweeps you into a crushing hug, never mindful of your new bruises and scrapes from your tangle with the Blighters, and oh but how _right_ you hate that this feels.

( _I hated you_ , you ache to say, _for so long_.)

Instead, what comes out of your mouth is, “I missed you.”

He pulls back, laughing breathlessly, taking you in like he’s never seen you before. “Christ, you look so _different_!” He tugs at your coat, shaking his head. “All fancy and everything,” he muses.

You roll your eyes, mirroring the action against his threadbare coat and ratty-cap. “I could say the same to you.”

“Oi,” he says. “Don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”

“Are you trying to prove a point or something?” You pause, grin broadening. “What a reputation you must have; Jacob Frye, the Gang Leader with the flat cap and ratty clothes.”

“Says you!” He hooks an arm around your neck, pulling you in close – _like he used to_. The memories come unbidden, the ache in your heart sudden and painful. “All this fancy gear and you couldn’t even take three Blighters.”

You roll yours eyes. “Maybe you should keep a closer eye on your Rooks.” You tug yourself away, looking up at him pointedly. “I would have been just fine if I didn’t have to make sure your _buddy_ was alright.”

He’s confused; you can see the gears turning in his head as he thinks on your words. Finally, “Who, Nigel? He was fine.”

 _Typical_. “Of course he was.”

He grins boyishly; your heart clenches. How you hate this, this rise of feelings you’d long thought destroyed and buried. They rise again now, unwanted and unneeded, bringing with them reminders of your teen years and Crawley, reminders of late nights with Jacob and cheating at whist.

“Come on,” he says. His arm is heavy around your shoulders as he leads you from the pub, the Rooks at your back. You’d thought him confident, _arrogant_ before but a _gang leader_ in _London_? Beth will lose her mind when you write to her. “I know someone who’s been _dying_ to see you again.”

* * *

Evie cries your name before you can even say ‘hello,’ sweeping you into a tight embrace that you don’t realise you’ve missed until now.

“We hadn’t expected you for another few days,” she says as she pulls back. She looks over her shoulder at her brother, idling near the doorway and already showing signs of boredom.

He’d stopped _seven_ Blighters coming back to the train – the _train_ , their headquarters is a _train_! – simply for the coat they wore and for _something to do_. You’re bruised and sore and tired and wanting nothing more than to sleep – but fighting by his side again had been exhilarating. You hate admitting it, especially when Kenneth had always told you to look before you leap, _always_.

Kenneth would have condemned your actions today; the thought is sobering and horrifying.

Something is different this time though, you want to think; the way Jacob had been looking at you as you fought – _that’s different._ There was an admiration in his eyes, you want to believe, a reverence that you’ve never seen from him before, never directed at you. He’s been uncharacteristically quiet ever since.

“I couldn’t wait to see you,” you tease Evie, grinning. “It’s been too long.”

She introduces you to Henry Green, the man George mentioned to you before instructing you to leave; he’s been the only assassin in London for years, you were told, sent there by Ethan Frye himself.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he says, his handshake firm and his hand soft. “I was sorry to hear about Kenneth. He was a good man.”

Evie frowns at his side, her smile slipping as you withdraw your hand from Henry Green’s. You can’t quite bear to look at her – she knows how much Kenneth meant to you, after all, with how highly you spoke of him in the letters you sent her in the first couple of years since your departure from Crawley. They grew rarer and rarer still as the two of you grew older and drew further apart; distance, as always, became an obstacle that tore apart a friendship and divided the two of you.

You can’t be sure the two of you are even the same people anymore.

“Thank you,” you say tersely, finding yourself suddenly in need of peace and quiet and isolation.

The tense atmosphere is broken by Jacob clearing his throat and requesting loudly that you join him for a drink or two.

“There’s a bar on the train?” you ask sceptically, half-turning to look at him. There’s a smirk on his lips again, the façade of smugness returned to his features.

“Of course.”

He’s expecting you to say no, you think, like you always did years ago. He’s expecting you to feel Evie’s eyes on the side of your head and the expectant look she’s no doubt wearing and to buckle down and get to work. He’s expecting you to shield yourself away and protect the heart he broke.

You can practically hear Beth screaming at you that it’s a bad idea – _it took ye long enough tae get_ over _him in the first place, ye dafty! If ye dae this, ye’ll be back tae square one!_ – but you smile and walk forward a few steps, gesturing to him to lead the way.

You _are_ over him and your broken heart is mended and your lesson is learned. A couple of drinks is harmless.

* * *

“I _loved_ you.” The words are thrown like knives, bitter and sharp and painful.

He shakes his head, grasping for excuses you don’t believe anymore. “I didn’t –“

“ _Bullshit_.” You furiously wipe at your eyes as they fill with tears, an equally enraged moan leaving your lips. “You _always_ knew, Jacob.”

* * *

His actions become more and more curious as your time in London drags on.

You ache for Edinburgh, for cold and foggy spring mornings and the castle towering over the city. You ache for bagpipes in the evening, for lazy star-gazing with Beth on the rooftops of the Bureaus.

He follows you after he figures it out.

You wake early in the mornings, clambering to the rooftops and perching on the edge of the stone walls, watching the fog lift over the city and trying to imagine that it’s different, that it’s not Big Ben you’re seeing, but the Scott Monument by the gardens. You try to imagine Beth by your side in the evenings before you trail back to the train, complaining about the smog that obscures the stars, no matter how high you climb.

He used to be able to sneak up on you, you recall almost fondly, when he _really_ put his mind to it. Now he gets a couple of steps and you look over your shoulder, smiling softly in greeting and hating that you’ve yet to find the confidence to tell him how you _felt_. He grins and joins you on your perch, grumbling about the early morning and the late night, but somehow never leaving.

“I _can_ look after myself, you know,” you mention to him one night, as he pockets his brass knuckles and settles on the cold stone beside you. “I don’t need a… bodyguard.”

“I know,” he says. He sounds sad for a moment, wistful. “Although I think it wouldn’t hurt – that bruise is a belter.”

You dust your fingers absently over the healing bruise on your jaw, remembering not quite so fondly the night in the pub and the Blighter who gave you it. You nod towards the pocket that holds Jacob’s brass knuckles.

“Those things are not fun,” you say, “and it was a fluke.” You roll your shoulders, throwing your head back and trying to see through the clouds overhead, hoping for a glimpse at the stars so far out of reach.

“Don’t think you’ll see any tonight,” comments Jacob off-handedly. “The sky’s been promising a downpour all afternoon.”

“You never know,” you murmur in return, despite knowing he’s right.

“I do know,” he says. “No use bantering in the rain when we could do it in a pub.”

You roll your eyes, huffing a light laugh. “Who says I’m looking for banter?” _With you_?

He scoffs. “Come on,” he says, clapping you on the back as he spins and sets his feet on the rooftop. “Least we can do is get out of this bloody cold.”

“Never bothered you before,” you say, copying his actions and joining him on the roof. You’ve set your feet down and stood as the first drops of rain begin to fall from the sky. He reaches forward before you can, hands brushing your neck and jaw as he fingers the hemline of your hood. He’s stepped close, close enough for you to see the scar on his jawline – _new_ , you unwillingly catalogue, _or newer. He didn’t have so many years ago_. His lips are parted just slightly, like he’s surprised by the action as much as you, and you’re confused and embarrassed when he finally draws up your hood.

“Er… right,” he says. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Let’s be off then.”

The streets are empty because of the downpour. It’s bliss, you think, because the last thing you want after having your lovely evening ruined is to fight any Blighter’s Jacob sees on the street. He doesn’t go out of his way to fight them, you’ve found, but he doesn’t discourage it, and it usually follows a pattern.

He eyes them from across the street, geared up to fight but not approaching. They start shouting, threatening him before they realise who they’re talking to. He crosses over, brass knuckles on his hand and gauntlet at the ready, and the Blighters realise they have truly underestimated their opponent.

For all Jacob complains that _you_ need a bodyguard because of _one_ bruise, you think he needs a chaperone for _impulse control_.

“Just got to pop in past somewhere,” Jacob tells you. He’s an arm around your shoulders and his head ducked close to your ear, speaking over the lashing rain. “We’ll be off and havin’ drinks in no time, love.”

The endearment used to make your heart flutter. Now, as with so many other things that used to make you forget yourself and your Assassin training, you merely raise an eyebrow, unimpressed.

He whistles. “Wow, Edinburgh _really_ changed you.”

“For the better,” you tell him pointedly. His brows pull together in a frown as he stares ahead, leading you on through the sheets of rain.

“That remains to be seen.”

It’s an odd comment for him to make, you think, but he pulls you to a stop by an alley and draws you in. Unbidden memories surface – breathless gasps between stolen kisses as you hurry back to the council to report the results of your missions; childlike laughter as arms encircle your waist in passing, drawing you into the dark as a face nuzzles into your hair – and you push them aside, burying them deep and doing your best to ignore them.

He knocks on a door you can barely see in the dark, gesturing you inside not two seconds after it opens. What you find is far from what you expect.

Crowds of people jammed into a stuffy, enclosed space, surrounding a sandy circle of ground cordoned off by a fence of peeling white paint. In the centre, two shirtless men throw punches back and forth. Blood sprays and the crowd cheers and even from the back you know exactly what kind of cesspit you’ve walked into.

Jacob’s talking to a man in a top hat by the door when you throw him an unimpressed look. He shrugs, waves a hand to you casually as his associate peers curiously at you, and passes him a handful of crumpled up notes. You scoff under your breath but nonetheless follow him where he leads, towards a door at the back of the room that’s hanging off its hinges.

“A fight club,” you start as soon as the noise dies down and the two of you are alone. “What are you hoping to achieve here?”

“Easy money,” he says, shouldering out of his coat. He throws it haphazardly over the nearest chair, his shirt following soon after. “Give us a hand and grab those bandages there, will ya, love?”

 _I’ll throw them at your daft head_ , you want to say, your hand closing around the small roll and setting it in his outstretched hand.

He’s got tattoos now, you notice, a cross on his shoulder and a raven on his collarbone, and silvery white scars criss-crossing his skin. From his stomach to his shoulders, there are lines of white of varying colours and sizes, all of them with a story you haven’t heard yet. The questions are on your lips, the curiosity burning in your eyes, and he’s winding the white fabric around his hands and so intently focussed that you can’t bring yourself to ask.

Evie no doubt disapproves. Kenneth would _definitely_ disapprove.

(There’s a reason Stevie never told him about his visits, after all.)

Jacob scoffs when you mention Evie. “She’s the reigning champion,” he tells you and then, with a shrug and an explanatory, “It helps her relieve some tension.”

You hum in surprise.

He stands, rolling his shoulders and prepping himself for his fight. His muscles ripple as he punches the air, a thin sheet of sweat beginning to glistening on his skin in the stuffy room. He’s bulked out since the last time you joined him at a fight club; Crawley hardly offered much competition for as Assassin, anyway. He used to be thinner, lither, quicker. Now he’s built and sturdy, able to take a punch and keep throwing them. His hair has become floppy with sweat, falling into his eyes as he cracks his neck.

You swallow – it’s suddenly become a _lot_ hotter in here.

Time to _go_.

“You’ll be watching, won’t you?” Jacob asks, the question thrown over his shoulder as he goes to the door. The cheering outside has risen in volume – the fight out there must be close to finishing. “You’re not still as queasy as you used to be?”

Not even close but there’s no way you can stay, not when it poses so much _danger_ to you, to your scarred heart.

“Evie needs my help,” you lie smoothly. “I’ve just remembered.”

“Yes,” replies Jacob. If he’s disappointed, he hides it well behind his smug smirk. “I’m sure she does.”

“Good luck,” you tell him but he’s already stepped through the busted door and into the crowd, pushing through them like a man on a mission.

His steps are heavy even still but his back is straight and his hands are clenched and you can’t help but feel slightly responsible for the beating his opponent is about to take.

* * *

A strange routine follows his return that night: Jacob goes to the fight clubs, returns with his winnings, douses his wounds in whiskey and drinks the rest of the bottle, and somehow you find yourself seeing to his wounds and scolding him.

 _Like you used to_.

The words are haunting and suffocating and _awful_ but no matter what you do you can’t escape from this… _rut_ you’ve found yourself in. It’s all too familiar, too _safe_ , and you’re waiting for the catch, for the moment you’ll remember _why_ you had to leave, what made you leave, _who_ made you leave.

Jacob hisses in discomfort as you prod at his cut cheek. The small swatch of cloth in your hand is stained with his blood but his wounds are no longer oozing like they were when he arrived. You sigh, tossing the rag aside and slumping heavily onto the bar stool next to him.

“Give it a few days this time, yes?” You rub at your tired eyes. “Please?”

His lips quirk in an impish grin. “For you?” He pauses, dark eyes twinkling with mischief. “Of course.”

Your heart skips a beat. You nod, satisfied, and start to get up again. You need to leave, need to get yourself together in the quiet of your room. You need to stop yourself from falling down this hole again – you didn’t drag yourself from it unscathed last time and you’ve no want to willingly dive headfirst into it once more.

He grabs your hand in passing, rubbing a thumb over your knuckles and drawing your surprised eyes.

“Stay a little longer?” He nods towards the bar behind him, the shelves half-empty from the Rooks that flew through earlier and drank themselves into a drunken frenzy. “I’ll pay.”

“You own the train,” you retort, frowning.

“Just one bottle,” he persists.

You sigh. “Just one.” _It can’t hurt_ , you tell yourself. _One drink never hurt anyone_.

The bottle he sets in front of you is warm to the touch, heated by the stuffy air inside the dining car, and your fingers brush as you reach for it. He nurses his own in his hand, his eyes soft as they look upon you, and those words are ringing in your head again – _like you used to_.

* * *

You wake curled up against his side, an arm around your shoulders and Jacob snoring softly into your hair. Evie’s sitting on her desk, unimpressed as you start to disentangle yourself from his hold, a blush creeping up your neck and face, and as you try to sneak away, he shifts, stilling your movements.

He huffs in his sleep, rolls over, and his snores quickly renew.

“I thought this was done with,” Evie says quietly. “That you’d learned your lesson.”

“We’re just friends,” you return in a low voice, eyes darting worriedly towards Jacob.

“He sleeps like the dead,” says his sister, unconcerned, “and I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t expect you to.” A flicker of irritation passes over your face, quickly clamped down upon. “It’s different this time,” you insist, “I’m not…”

Evie’s eyes trail over you, unnerving in their keenness. “You’re not in love with him anymore,” she finishes for you, though the lilt to her voice and the slight cocking of her head tells you she doesn’t believe you.

You chance a glance at Jacob, curled up on the sofa and clutching to one of the torn, pink cushions. He’s still and silent, frowning in his sleep, and you swallow, turning your eyes away from him and instead studying the map of London. He’s marked strongholds in large letters and even larger crosses – he’d told you the night before of his intention to take the Thames next.

The train is suddenly stifling and suffocating and you need to leave.

“I’m going to get a head start collecting information on Edith Swinebourne,” you announce, reaching for your coat where you’d abandoned it the night before. “I’ll catch you up later, Evie.”

“Be careful,” Evie warns as you leave. “He didn’t deserve you then and he doesn’t deserve you now.”

* * *

He tells you later that he heard everything and regrets hang in the air as you take your leave of him, telling yourself it’s best for you both that you keep your distance.

* * *

He’s not happy with that decision and words are thrown like knives, said sharply and without thought as wounds long thought closed are ripped open and your heart is exposed all over again.

* * *

_I loved you_.

The words haunt you the next morning, as the shine burns away the mist in the city. You’d been ruthless in your defence of your scarred and broken heart, saying and doing everything to keep him away from you, batting away hands that reached for you, shoving at his chest with all your might until he staggered back and away. He was desperate and _sorry_ and rueful, so rueful, expressing regrets like confessions to a priest, begging you to just _listen_ to him, to _wait_ –

 _He didn’t deserve you then_. _He doesn’t deserve you now_.

 _I loved you_.

You wipe at enraged tears, a whimpering moan leaving your lips as you despair. Beth comforts and scolds in equal measures in your mind, everything she says a repeat of what she told you when she’d learned the truth of your arrival in Edinburgh – _be better. Be stronger. Show him his mistake_.

You’ve done that – now what? He’s looking at you with admiration and reverence and _care_ and you’re being drawn in by him all over again. He’s looking at you in ways he never did before, like he’s never seen you before but known you forever. He’s looking at you like you used to him; with _love_ and _devotion_.

You can’t _deal_ with this.

“I hated you,” you whisper, slapping your palm against the stone, smacking it over and over until you’re scarred and bleeding and distracted. “God, I _hate_ you.”

“I know,” he says. “You have every right to.”

You can’t look at him, not when you’re like this, bleeding and sore and distraught. You can’t look at him, not even as he approaches you, strong arms slowly wrapping around you from behind, face nuzzling into your hair, nose pressing against the back of your neck. He breathes you in, a deep inhale that you feel against your back, and you lean into him and _sob_ , teary eyes watching the sun as it rises over the city.

_I loved you._

_I still do_.

“I’m sorry,” he’s murmuring. “Christ, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t,” you whisper. Your voice is thick with emotion. “Please don’t.”

You feel him nod against you, chin resting on your shoulder. He lifts his head and kisses your temple, his lips lingering as he squeezes you briefly, and you lift your hands to entwine them with his, forgetting your scratched palm until the contact with his warm hand has you hissing and drawing away. He lifts his hand, taking yours gently in his and lifting them both; you can _feel_ his frown against you, hear the soft inhale of breath as he pulls away.

“Bloody idiot,” he scolds, turning you to face him and holding your hand between his. “What a foolish thing to do.”

“You bring that out in me,” you reply softly. You don’t lift your eyes from your hand, held so gently between his, so caringly. You’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to it; you’ve wanted this for so long and now you have it – it’s terrifying and _new_ and _strange_ , so _strange_. You’d never believed it would ever happen.

“Suppose I do,” Jacob murmurs. He huffs a quiet laugh, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his lips. “Should’ve known better. Dragging you along to fight clubs and the like.” He pauses, cocking his head. “Didn’t expect you to pick up my self-destructive habits.”

You shake your head. You want to reply, want to banter back and forth like nothing’s changed, but the light words won’t come. “What changed your mind?”

He frowns and the silence stretches on for a few moments. Finally, he says quietly, “You left.”

 _Edinburgh_ happened, you realise. You _left_ , sent away by his father and the council without an argumentative word from you after a horrifying night that you remember all too well. He’d told you he loved you like a _sister_ , beer on his lips and a flush on his cheeks, and you realised nothing could change that.

Distance had been the answer, you remember, the answer to your flaking ego and broken heart, and he’d reacted so _negatively_ when you told him what had happened. He’d taken your love and stomped all over it without knowing, ripping you to shreds and _ruining_ you and Edinburgh had seemed so far away and awful and _necessary_.

“Seeing you again,” he continues, thumb rubbing circles on the inside of your wrist, “in all that fancy gear and looking so _different_ …” he trails off, his free hand adjusting the collar of your coat, fingering the hemline of your hood. “I could hardly believe.”

“Felt almost like a second chance,” you voice cautiously, lifting your eyes to his. He’s watching you carefully, lips parted so slightly. You think he might kiss you and the thought scares you into inching away from him, into gently tugging your hand from his grip and pulling your arms tight around yourself, clutching at your sleeves to still your trembling fingers.

“Yes,” he agrees. “It did.”

He looks like he wants to reach for you again, to draw you close to him and _fix_ it all. You’d like to give in, to let him kiss you all over and hold you close, to feel the warmth from his body like you had when you’d drunkenly collapsed on his sofa and slept cuddled close to his side. This isn’t something he can fix, not now, not after all this time, but, _oh_ , how you’d _like_ him to.

“I need…” Your voice is no louder than a whisper, laced with confusion and doubt. You don’t know what you need – years ago, you’d _wanted_ and _ached_ , suffered in silence and took his shouted anger and held it close when you needed to remember why you were in Edinburgh and not Crawley. Years ago, you’d _loved_ and then you’d _hated_ and now…

His hand cradles your jaw when he steps closer, your stillness an open invitation, the pads of his fingers ghosting over your skin towards your hairline. They trace the shell of your ear as he cups your face, leaning in close until your foreheads are pressed together and you’re breathing has been reduced to shallow and sobbing gasps.

“Tell me,” he whispers against your lips. “Tell me what you need.”

 _Damn him_.

You surge forward, pressing your lips to his with an insatiable urgency, loving him and hating him in equal measures. _Damn you_ , you’re thinking, whispering, breathless between kisses, _damn you_. He grins, wicked and teasing, peppering your jaw and neck with kisses, drawing the skin into his mouth and sucking just so.

“Damn you,” you utter again, gasped into his hair, the strands thick between your fingers as you run your hand through it. “Damn you.”

“I love you,” he breathes in return, pulling back. Fingers under your chin tilt your head back so you’re looking at him and only him. He stills, waiting, holding his breath as you digest the words you’ve _waited_ for years to hear.

Your answer is a mixture of a sob and a laugh, eyes squeezed shut as you shake your head in disbelief, clutching at the lapels of his dirty and torn coat.

“It took you bloody long enough,” you manage to whisper, pressing another fleeting kiss to his rough lips, to his bearded jaw, accepting the relieved exhale of breath against your hair, the tight, squeezing hug he seizes you in.

 _Damn him_.


	13. Invitation [Evie Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Furiously, you snap, “Well she’s not going to ask for help anymore, is she? With you nasty buggers tattling to Jacob all the bloody time.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> requested by padrooke on tumblr!

The first time you meet Evie Frye, you’re giving up your red jacket and taking a green.

She’s on top of a train and her brother is rejoicing with the new additions to their gang, and you’re so enamoured that it takes her eyes sweeping over the crowd and catching yours to realise you’ve been staring.

In your hurry to make it look like you actually _haven’t_ been staring when you _really, really_ have, you trip over your own feet and land in the pile of abandoned red jackets.

In front of everyone.

It’s embarrassing and completely you and you’re not surprised but still disappointed when you look up and Evie Frye is no longer looking at you.

Instead, she’s not on top of the train at all anymore. She’s disappearing inside and you’re still on the floor, staring up at the space she once was and wondering if she saw the whole thing.

 _Of course she did_ , you think glumly, forcing yourself to your feet. _Everyone did_.

Including your new boss, who’s lending a hand and surprising you for the second time today.

“Alright?” he asks and the smug smile on his face and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes tells you that he saw the whole thing.

You nod once and accept the help.

“Cheers,” you mutter, because you know your dignity is past saving so you’re not even going to try.

“You won’t see much of Evie,” says Jacob Frye and honestly you’re surprised that he’s still with you. Surely gang leaders have more important things to do than talk to their new recruits? “She’s still of the opinion that this isn’t a good idea.”

“This?”

“The Rooks,” says Jacob. “She thinks there’s more important things to be doing. Best you leave her be.”

 _Sound advice_ , you think and you’re going to follow it.

* * *

Of course you don’t.

(It’s not your fault, not even close.)

She seeks you out – well, not _you_ , specifically, but you’re minding your own business and you like to think she recognises you – and mentions something about needing aid from the Rooks for the mission she’s preparing.

“It requires the utmost discretion,” she says and the stare she gives you is soft but expectant.

You nod once. “I know just who to ask.”

“Good.”

She doesn’t say anything else and doesn’t bid you a good day but it doesn’t matter because she _talked_ to you and no one else is around.

You are  _so_ going to exaggerate this story to the other Rooks.

* * *

In the end, she doesn’t really need your help.

Her words of _utmost discretion_ ring in your head and even though you’d all been incredibly silent and aware that the slightest noise could ruin her hard work and planning, in the end everything had gone to shit anyway.

But none of it was your fault – nor was it Alfie’s or Eliza’s or anyone you’d asked.

Jacob Frye had appeared, looking for a fight and some excitement, and had thrown himself headfirst into the building Evie had told you to watch. He’d waved at your small troop and started rattling off a plan that you can hardly remember now and then Alfie and Eliza were following him and you’d had no choice.

You would in no way _ever_ follow Mr Frye into the dark but the other Rooks seem to think the sun shines out his arse.

Evie completes her mission regardless and you bear witness to her fury as she storms towards her brother.

“Evie!” Jacob greets and then, with a sly smirk and a quick glance towards Alfie and Eliza at his sides, “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Don’t start,” snaps Evie, with crimson cheeks and thin lips. “You knew exactly where I was.”

“I just came to lend hand,” replies her brother nonchalantly. “If I’d known you’d be so ungrateful I might not have bothered.”

“I _told_ you to stay away!”

You remain silent as the argument rises in intensity and your eyes dart between the twins as they speak almost comically. You have a sneaking suspicion that Alfie of Eliza or _both_ went to Jacob after you’d approached them about Evie’s mission and you’re going to chew them out for it later.

Alfie looks amused by the whole thing, leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest and a twinkle in his eye.

“I’m right glad Mr Frye is our Boss, aren’t you?” he quips as you join him, removing yourself from the danger zone.

“Technically,” you murmur, your eyes travelling back to Evie where she’s growing more and more frustrated. “We work for both of them.”

 _I am not asking you for help again_ , you think, irritated and scowling at the rip in your sleeve.

“Yes,” pipes up Eliza, “but Miss Frye hardly ever wants help, does she? She’s too fussy for that.”

Furiously, you snap, “Well she’s not going to ask for help anymore, is she? With you nasty buggers tattling to Jacob all the bloody time.”

You storm away before they can say anything more or before you can do something even more stupid.

* * *

She’s pouring over a book when you wander onto the train and she looks over her shoulder before you can clear your throat and announce your presence.

Her expectant look makes your throat clog up and the words freeze on your tongue. You want to apologise to her, want to tell her that if you’d known Eliza and Alfie would be so _awful_ that you would have never asked them to help. Instead, seeing her there, standing straighter and turning to greet you, you suddenly can’t find the words.

“Err,” you fumble, and behind you there are loud voices, celebrations in the dining car and laughs and jokes. Usually you’d have joined them by now but the way everything went down, you haven’t been able to stop thinking about Evie. “How- Are you- Um.”

This might be the longest conversation the two of you have had.

“Are you alright?” she interrupts to ask and there’s a kindness to her voice still, despite the firm look she fixes you.

“Err,” you mumble, “fine. How… are you?”

The words leave your mouth and you cringe. She answers politely, if somewhat sceptically, and you’re screaming at yourself that you should just leave right now, leave before you can embarrass yourself anymore. But of course you linger like a bad smell and you can see on her face that she so badly wants to be left alone, that she wants to return to her work but can’t for fear of being impolite.

“Does my brother have a message for me?” Evie asks and the question puzzles you. She elaborates, “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

 _No_ , you nearly say aloud, _I’m here because I wanted to apologise_.

You bite your tongue and wordlessly shake your head.

“Err,” you mumble, “I just wanted to check that you were… okay.”

Your cheeks flush as the words leave your mouth. You’re only further embarrassing yourself the longer you stay here but you can’t seem to stop.

 _Leave you idiot_! You scream at yourself.

“Oh,” says Evie softly. “That’s kind of you.”

There’s no hint of sarcasm or mockery in her tone and it makes you perk up slightly. You’re startled eyes meet her bemused ones but there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips.

“It’s unnecessary,” she adds, “but thank you.”

Of course it’s unnecessary – she’s a master assassin, after all, you’ve heard the whispers through the Rooks of the Unstoppable Frye Twins and their assassin connections – and you realise now that asking after her wellbeing, checking up on her, is _unnecessary_.

“Err, right,” you say at last, breaking the awkward silence that has befallen. “I’ll just be off.”

She says your name, freezing you where you have started to turn to leave, and you’re surprised that she knows your name, surprised that she bothered to find out. Her eyes are twinkling, reminding you so much of Jacob that you can now see the resemblance that before you’d never really found, and she gestures to the piles of books.

“I’ve much to sift through,” she says, “and I could use some help, if you’re not busy.”

You hope you don’t seem overly keen when you accept her invitation.


	14. Water [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You better have a good reason for a laying a hand on one of my Rooks,” demands Frye, and then, his voice a growl as he grows angrier and angrier, “you better have a good reason for laying a hand on her in front of me.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the tag **emotional abuse** refers to this one-shot, so please take care when reading!

You’re haunted by harsh words said sweetly and smiles too sharp to be kind.

They hover by your shoulder, whispering in your ear as you try to enjoy yourself. They hold your throat in a vicelike grip when you try to speak, make you doubt yourself and your words. They make you wonder if you really have anything to contribute to the conversation, if your words are really _worth_ contributing.

Lambeth is far away but not far enough; you can see Westminster from your room, most nights, see the Big Ben and Parliament, the castle-like buildings that always seemed like a prison to you. How difficult has it been to get out of that borough unnoticed? How difficult has it been to stay away from it?

More difficult now than ever, you think, since you decided to take the green jacket offered to you. Danielle is lovely and sweet and patient and kind enough to let you crash in her spare room most nights. She never asks about your life before, doesn’t ever bring up the way she found you, cowering in a dark alley in the pouring rain and whispering to yourself. How panicked had you been then, that you’d managed to leave?

( _Escape_.)

How sure had you been that they’d be worried for you, that they’d try to find you?

( _Hunt you_.)

Danielle had pitied you and brought you into her home. She’d wrapped you in a thin blanket and set you in front of the blazing fire as she’d set about making tea.

“Tea cures all,” she’d murmured, encouraging you to take the mug from her.

Even now she insists it cures all.

The bar is overly crowded tonight and you’re crushed against the bar, your glass of water sitting largely untouched. You’ve turned down many offers of _drinks_ , many statements of “here, come now, let me buy you a drink, sweetheart!” and instead have stared at the clear liquid like you wished you could drown in it.

 _He never liked me drinking_ , you think, wringing your fingers together. _If he found out, he’d be so mad_.

But _he_ ’s not here, not anymore, and what’s really stopping you but fear?

It’s not until Mr Frye himself sidles onto the stool beside you that you really start to panic. He barely seems to glance at you at first, so quiet as you are, and you’re quite content with that. You’re not sure how to handle many conversations anymore, not after everything that’s happened to you, years of…

You dip your finger into the glass in front of you, swirling it around while you fiddle with your hair, and you’re not at all paying attention to anything around you. Perhaps that’s why you jump nearly a mile out of your skin when Mr Frye clicks his fingers in front of your face.

 _Jeez_ , that’s embarrassing.

“That got your attention,” he comments light-heartedly, but all you can think of is that _he_ never liked you thinking for yourself – _he_ never liked it when you weren’t paying attention _always_.

You can hear the hissed whisper in your ear – _you never listen to anything I say, do you know how that makes me feel_? – and if Mr Frye thinks anything about the startled expression you’re wearing, he doesn’t comment. He does have a slightly confused expression on his face though, almost as if he has no idea how to react.

“Er, can I get you anything?” he asks and then, with a careless gesture towards the glass in front of you, “or are you content enough to keep playing with that?”

 _Is that_ …? _Is he angry with me_? _Do I apologise_?

The hissing voice returns – _You can’t do anything right, can you?_

“Excuse me,” you squeak, and your ankle nearly gives out when you slide from the stool and flee the bar.

* * *

You’re not sure if he just wasn’t _that_ noticeable to you before or if he’s actively seeking you out now, but you see more of Mr Frye after that night.

It’s terribly odd, to see him taking charge more often in Lambeth, to see him at the head of turf wars, and perhaps that’s the reason you’re considering a move farther into the city. Farther away from Westminster and the family you left behind ( _ran away_ _from_ ), farther away from _him_ , with his sweet words and deceivingly gentle touches.

But it would mean leaving behind Danielle, leaving behind her kindness and friendship, all because you’re frightened and flighty, so sure that your time is almost up.

You’re running out of _time_ – god, you don’t have enough of it. What will you do when it inevitably runs out? What will you do when they find you, when they retrieve you? What will you do when the cage is locked, your chance at escape held hopelessly out of reach?

Danielle worries, you know she does, and maybe that’s why she tails you when you steal away towards the city, looking curiously around you and wondering if you could make a life for yourself here. Could you live the quiet life now, after the taste you’ve had of life with the Rooks? Could you live a quiet life now when everyday with the Rooks is filled with gunfights and bar fights and bloodshed?

Danielle approaches you when the sun is low in the sky, the clouds painted with streaks of pink and orange, and if she’s surprised that you’ve known she was there the whole time, she doesn’t mention it.

“I won’t ask,” she says. “I’ve always known you couldn’t stay with me forever.” She pauses, bites at her lip. “But d’you have to move so far away?”

You wring your hands together – _look what you’ve done_ , _she’s upset. Look what you’ve DONE_ – but the words won’t come. You don’t have to move far away, you _don’t_ , and you don’t want to, not from Danielle, not from perhaps the only _true_ friend you’ve ever had. But what about _them_? You can’t stay close to _them_ anymore, not when every day you risk the possibility of running into someone you _knew_.

A response is on your lips – an apology, an explanation, you’re not sure – but Jacob Frye rounds the corner ahead of the two of you and the words die on your lips.

It’s probably just a coincidence – it’s a coincidence, it’s a coincidence, the words are a mantra repeated in your mind as your panic starts to rise – and he’s your Boss, nothing more. Probably worried about his Rooks, that’s all, _worried about his Rooks_. _You_ are one of the Rooks too and maybe, you start to think, _maybe_ he’s worried about you too.

 _Ha_. The laugh is curt and invasive. _Why would anyone be worried about you_?

Danielle greets him warmly but you’ve left it too late to excuse yourself without it seeming like he’s the cause. You stand awkwardly, unsure of what to say and the memory of a few nights ago still vivid in your mind, until the conversation takes a worrisome turn towards _you_.

“So,” starts Jacob Frye casually, and he leans against the wall, his eyes coasting curiously over Danielle and yourself. “You two have wandered awfully far from Lambeth.”

“You been followin’ us, Mr Frye?” Danielle quips with a joking grin, her words lacking any suspicion or fear.

You, on the other hand, now can’t stop thinking about all the reasons Jacob Frye could possibly have to be following you. Have you done something wrong? Has he been tipped off to your life before? Has he been paid off by _them_ , sent to drag you home?

The thoughts make your hands shake and your stomach churn. It’s hard to convince yourself that you’re _safe_ now, hard to convince yourself that you can live your life when around every corner lies the possibility of spies and plots and plans. What if they’re waiting for you to slip up, waiting to grab you and –

Danielle says your name worriedly and instantly you realise it’s not the first time she’s tried to get your attention. Her eyes are on you and so are Jacob Frye’s, their expressions showing nothing but concern – _why would anyone be worried about you_? murmurs that voice again – and _Christ_ , but you need some peace and solitude.

For the second time in as many times, you mutter, “Excuse me,” and turn on your heel and walk away, your pace just shy of a run.

* * *

For all the talk of the Frye’s and their _skills_ , for all the talk of how _dangerous_ they are, you _know_ he’s following you.

Perhaps it’s the paranoia that’s taken hold of you, the fear that any moment you’ll turn a corner and be surrounded and escorted back _there_. Perhaps you’re better than you think you are. Perhaps he’s not as good as he thinks he is.

He plays coy, pretends he has no idea what Danielle’s talking about when she confronts him – because how can _you_ when you’re so sure he’s working for _them_? He loiters at corners, watches you from the back of the pub, and always, _always_ , he wears this serious and pensive expression. You can’t help but feel like he’s _waiting_ for something, a moment, a signal.

You can’t help but feel like he’s waiting for _them_.

Maybe that’s why you’re so sure now that you have to leave London.

You don’t want to. London is your home, it’s the only place you’ve ever known. How can you leave it when you’ve nowhere else to go?

It’s an unusually bright and warm day, the sky overhead clear of any grey clouds, and it reminds you of simpler times, of tea in the garden with friends, of walks in the park with a man you thought you loved. You watch the Thames below, the rippling water and the boats that glide across its surface; he had a boat, you remember, and he told you once that he’d take you out on it, after you were married.

You wonder now if he would have pushed you off and into the water. You wonder now if he would kill you if he had the chance.

 _I’m stronger now_ , you think, but your thoughts have taken a troubling turn for the wicked and evil. _I’m stronger now_.

 _Are you_? _Strong because you ran away?_

You hand clenches into a fist on the stone and you run your hands through your hair, feeling the prickling of frustrated tears stinging your eyes. You need to _go_ , you need to go-

 _Home_.

The word catches. You have no home, not anymore – you’re a lodger in Danielle’s house, unable to find somewhere to make your own, unable to return to a house that’s no longer welcoming. You can’t return to that house, can’t return there where memories are tainted and words are hisses said unkindly.

You throw yourself away from the stone and into the traffic of the crowds around you, blinking away tears as you walk quickly. You’ll clear your head before you go back to Danielle, clear your mind of troublesome thoughts so she has nothing to worry about.

It’s been so long since anyone’s worried over you, so long since anyone has thought about _your_ feelings.

 _She doesn’t mean it_ , you hear hissed. _She’s using you_.

The inner battle you’re fighting is distracting and disorientating. You stumble into someone, a large body that hardly moves while you stagger backwards and almost lose your footing. Hands steady you, a voice chuckles, and your blood turns to ice as your eyes find his face.

 _Him_.

A shout catches in your throat as you lift your hand, clenched in a fist and aimed at his jaw, but instead his large hand encircles your wrist. It’s worse than any restraint, more effective at disarming you than any weapon, and your legs have turned to jelly before a word has even left his mouth.

You’d been _so close_.

“You’ve been wandering,” he muses, cocking his head to the side. You’re tempted to think him playful and innocent but you know better.

Your voice is frozen in your throat. You cannot find words nor strength and you’re sure the terror you feel, the terror that squirms in your insides, is shown clear as day on your face. You cannot defend yourself against this, no matter how many times you might have imagined what you would say, how you would react.

Now it’s happening, and you can do nothing but shake in fear.

“You’ve always been selfish,” he continues, shaking his head and a scowl crossing his features. “You’ve no idea what your actions have done, have you?” He pauses. The hand gripping your wrist tightens, just shy of painful. You wince anyway. “You always do this.”

You _don’t_ , you want to say, you’ve never done this before, not ever. You’ve always acted the picture of perfection, always minded your manners, always stayed demure and quiet and _perfect_.

“We’re going home,” he says, his scowl deepening, his words a growl that has the hair on the back of your neck standing on end. “We’re going home and we’re going to have a long _conversation_ about this.”

There’s no such thing as a conversation in that house, not with you – they _talk_ and you _listen_. Your opinion is unnecessary and unwanted, your voice unheeded, your presence replaceable. There’s no place for you there, they don’t need you there, yet…

There are all things said to you by _family_ , all things said to you by those who claim to love you. They tell you they don’t need you, that you’re replaceable, but if that is the case-

Why have they gone to so much effort to get you back?

The thought gives you power, strength, and you start to fight back. Your foot catches him in the side, then in the thigh, the arm, the ankle, over and over until he stops trying to drag you along, until he’s gesturing to an unseen figure. You see red jackets and curled lips, dark eyes that zero in on the green tweed you wear, and the strength you feel falters.

“ _Oi_!”

Eyes shift towards Jacob Frye, striding purposefully towards you, and your _fiancé_ ’s eyes become darker – _impossible_ , you think deliriously – and his grip harsher. You catch Frye’s eyes as he approaches, quickly, fleetingly, _desperately_ , and find him stern and angry.

 _With you_ , you hear; your mother’s voice, thin and reedy and wicked. _Really, you always cause so much trouble, darling, making mountains out of mole hills_.

“You better have a good reason for a laying a hand on one of my Rooks,” demands Frye, and then, his voice a growl as he grows angrier and angrier, “you better have a good reason for laying a hand on her in front of _me_.”

“ _This_ ,” snaps your fiancé, wrenching at your arm as you struggle to remain in place – struggle to remain by Jacob’s side, “is my bride-to-be. Am I to understand that you are the cause of her disappearance?”

What a relief that is to hear, that Jacob Frye has nothing to do with your family. What a relief that is to hear, that Jacob Frye _truly_ has only been following you because he cares about you as one of his Rooks.

Your paranoia has been unfounded – how grateful you are to hear that.

“No, I’m not,” he says, “but I wish I was.” He starts to reach for a weapon. “It would be _far_ more satisfying that way.”

You react quickly, swinging your leg round and kicking your fiancé in the side once more, yanking yourself free of his grip and grasping tightly the hand that reaches for you. Jacob shoots Blighters down left, right and centre, strikes hard at your fiancé when he starts to stride forward and reach for you.

The last thing you hear from him before you follow Jacob from the street, rounding the corner into the dark alley and out of sight, is your name, shouted raw and furious; a promise of vengeance.

* * *

The words come easily after that, explanation after explanation, doubt after doubt, and he listens to it all. He wants to add to it – you can tell by the frown of his brows, the downturn of his lips as he scowls – but he holds back, drinking from his beer, swirling the liquid around the glass bottle before he downs it.

“Bastards,” he grumbles, when your words start to falter and your story starts to catch up to the present. “Your family is supposed to protect and support you, not…”

You think of Evie, of the relationship between the twins, the support given between the two of them. Danielle’s told you before that Evie sometimes disagrees with Jacob’s methods and vice versa but you’ve never seen them speak to each other, treat each other, the way you’ve been treated your whole life.

“The Rooks are your family now,” Jacob says surely, and it’s an echo of words Danielle has told you before. “ _I’m_ your family now.”

The words bring tears to the eyes. You’re speechless and teary, bottom lip trembling as you try to swallow the lump that burns in your throat.

“I’ll protect you,” he affirms, and you’re not sure if he’s convincing himself or you. “They’ll not get close while I’m here.”

You wipe hurriedly at your eyes but accept the embrace he gives gratefully – when was the last time someone held you like this, so comfortingly? So warmly and lovingly? Your eyes find the empty glass in front of you, the water you’d sipped periodically as you’d spoken through the night.

“I’ll ask the bartender to refill your glass,” Jacob offers with a wry smile. “You can play about with it to your hearts content.”

There’s a shy smile on your lips as you rub the back of your neck and murmur, “Order me a beer and then we’ll talk.”


	15. Take My Hand (My Whole Life Too) [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Oh, shall I stay, would it be a sin_  
>  Oh, if I can’t help falling in love with you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-fulfilment fic, ngl. listened to the song over and over again while writing, posted it for Jacob Frye Appreciation day at the start of March. It's cheesy and fluffy and everything I've never been good at writing but enjoy it nonetheless! <3 (◕‿◕✿)

> _Wise men say only fools rush in  
>  But I can’t help falling in love with you_

You join the Rooks three days after the Whitechapel borough is freed from Blighter influence.

You meet Jacob Frye two weeks later after a gang war gone wrong, when he fishes you out of the Thames.

Your head pounds and you can hardly see straight; there’s a film of dirt over your skin from the disgusting water and an annoying tickle in your throat that a cough won’t clear. He thumps you on the back as you cough and suffer, laughing breathlessly as the Rooks stumble from the bridge towards the dock where the two of you have emerged.

Your chest heaves as you gasp, “Thanks, Boss.”

He claps you on the shoulder. “Least I could do,” he says, lips quirked as he smiles. “That Blighter was charging for me, stupid. Bloody fool that you are – you’re tiny! No wonder you went flying!”

You swallow, accepting the hands that help you to your feet. “Even still, Boss. Better me than you.”

His brow pinches in thought. “Well, if I’d known that was your thinking, I wouldn’t have jumped in after you.”

Your lips twitch as you fight a smile. “Sorry Boss. I’ll make it clearer next time.”

> _Oh, shall I stay, would it be a sin  
>  _ _Oh, if I can’t help falling in love with you?_

You see more of him after that – part of you holds onto the hope that he seeks you out. It’s an impossible hope; there are hundreds of Rooks in the city, after all, all in green and yellow and all hoping to help. You doubt Jacob can tell the difference between you all and reason that it’s just coincidence, all of it. You made a fool of yourself by thinking you could save him when he’s more than capable of saving himself – he made that all the clearer by having to save _you_ from trying to save _him_.

“I’m an idiot,” you lament to Jimmy, cradling a warm beer bottle. He’s passed out on the stool next to you, his head resting on his arms on the bar top. “What was I even _thinking_?”

Your stupid act of non-heroics haunts you with every battle you follow Jacob Frye into. You’re sure he’s probably forgotten it by now, that you and a couple of Rooks who like to tease and torment are the only ones who still recall the event with perfect clarity, yet part of you – small but _loud_ – yearns. Maybe he remembers and, even as embarrassed as you still are, if he could just mention one thing, just _one_ thing to let you know he _knows_ you, that he can distinguish you…

You don’t think your heart will take it.

You flag down the bartender, accidently knocking into Jimmy’s head as you do so; your giggle is quiet and you’re slightly tipsy, grinning like a fool because no one can see you.

“Pardon me, love.” His hand on the small of your back as he reaches over you. You knock over an empty bottle, startled. He’s surprised but amused, leaning back to look at your face. Heat sears your cheeks, turning them bright, ruby red. Jacob grins. “Well, _hello_ again,” he purrs. He blatantly looks you up and down, uses one foot to easily slide Jimmy and his barstool aside and filling the gap. “You look better when you’re not soaking wet and shivering, love.”

You fiddle with the end of your yellow sash. “Thanks, Boss.”

“Can’t say I envied that god awful cold you came down with after though,” he comments. He thanks the bartender for the mug of ale, leans his hip against the bar.

Boldened by drink, you manage, “It’s a miracle you never came down with it, Boss.”

“No miracle involved.” He takes a long drink, fixes you with a considering stare afterwards. The froth from the ale has left a thick white moustache on his lip. “I’m _Jacob Frye_.”

“Yeah, Boss.” He’s already left you behind, striding through the throng of Rooks with a purpose that has them stepping aside without complaint. “I know.”

> _Like a river flows, surely to the sea  
>  Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be_

He _sees_ you a month later.

You’re furious and soaked in blood, the lone survivor from a tangle with Blighters straying too far from their borders. You’re dragging your leg and holding up Jimmy, his large arm thrown over your shoulders and his full weight on you. Your strength is waning the closer you get to home, your boots catching on cobblestones that send you stumbling to your knees. You catch your breath, start to rise, begin all over.

The rain starts as home territory comes into view, fast and heavy drops that soak your hair and skin and blind you. They streak the blood on your face and turn you into something out of a horror novel, a misunderstood monster seemingly staggering to your next victim when all you want is home and rest.

A cluster of Rooks meet you as you finally succumb to fatigue, dropping to your knees and finally to the cold ground, a hand still clenched in Jimmy’s coat as the thundering steps draw closer. You weakly reach for a weapon, tiredly imagining that it’s not help coming for you but more enemies, more Blighters who want to kill the survivors.

Instead, your name is shouted as bodies drop to their knees next to you, heaving you onto your back and shielding you from the pouring rain.

“What the devil happened?” you hear the Boss loudly demanding, towering over the scene with an ungodly fury emanating from him. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen.

“S…Sorry, Bo…ss…” Hands start to help you up; your knees give out as soon as you’re upright. “We… we were doing alright until… Nora…”

Jacob has a hand on your shoulder and a concerned frown on his face; rain drips off the rim of his top hat as he dips to meet your eyes. A brief glint of recognition, a twitch of his lips.

“Soaked in blood this time,” he muses. “Let’s not make this a regular occurrence, eh?”

He sweeps your feet out from under you, and carries you into the stronghold himself.

They wait until you’re rested up and healed somewhat before breaking the news to you that Jimmy had probably died while you were carrying him home. You scream and rage and sob and no one can calm you because no one can bear to go near you. No one goes near you until Jacob Frye returns, his coat drenched in rain and blood and his eyes alight with pity and understanding.

He holds you and comforts you until your throat is raw and your tears are spent.

> _Take my hand, take my whole life too  
>  Oh, for I can’t help falling in love with you_

He helps.

“It’s not your fault,” he says one night, sitting with you by the window. It’s raining again, dark clouds hanging over the city and your mind; a dark reminder of your failure. “You did what you could.”

You silently shake your head. “If I’d done more –“

“There was nothing more you could do,” he insists quietly. “You did everything.”

“Not everything,” you argue. “If I’d done everything, Jimmy would be alive.”

Jacob starts framing the bloodied armbands of fallen Rooks, mementos to remember them by and something to toast to. Three weeks later you’re back on the street, quieter and angrier than before.

“I thought you were never leaving that room,” Jacob comments. He’s been hanging around you more often, you’ve noticed, whenever he’s not off doing some secretive business that doesn’t require his Rooks. “I was close to dragging you out by your hair.”

“I’d have bitten off your hand.”

“Oh, _kinky_.” He winks at you, laughs at your bemused look. “I’m just joking, love! Relax, you’re all tense.”

“Sorry, Boss.” You hope he doesn’t hear the grumble in your voice.

“No harm done.” He claps you on the shoulder, whistles and waves for the Rooks loitering nearby to join the two of you. “Come on. Let’s find some unsuspecting Blighters to kick about, shall we?”

“Sure, Boss.”

He winks. “Call me Jacob.”

> _Oh, like a river flows, surely to the sea  
>  Darling, so it goes, some things are meant to be_

“We want Frye, tha’sall,” spits the brute of a Blighter. He hasn’t showered in days, you think; the smell of his body odour is overpowering, knotted in the back of your throat. Dirt is flaking on his coat and boots, caked under his nails as he presses his thumb against your bottom lip, attempting, you think, to coax your mouth open so you might spill your secrets.

Instead you latch onto the appendage with your teeth, the coppery taste of blood filling your mouth as you break skin, and the brute roars and swings. He knocks your head back, your teeth unlatching from his thumb, and you spit, a thick swab of blood and saliva staining even further an already disgusting floor.

The man in the corner, with leather boots gleamed and polished and a black coat flourishing proudly a red cross on the shoulder, tsks. The brute freezes, his fist clenched and raised as he prepares another hit; slowly, he steps away.

This newcomer’s hands are deceivingly gentle, tilting your face to look at him and wiping the stray tears that have fallen from your eyes. He hushes you and mocks comfort, one hand soothingly stroking your hair while the other sucker punches the breath from your lungs. You heave forward, straining against the ropes that bind you, tears stinging and streaming now, as he whispers in your ear his truths and lies.

“You’re on your own, my dear.” A hooded shadow ducks past the window. “Just another Rook, replaceable.” You think of the frame, of the bloodied armbands and Jimmy; your pain reminds you of staggering home and carrying a dead body, your thighs burning with the strain until finally your legs gave out mere feet from home.

“Did you think you were special?” A glint of a knife in the dark; the brute by the wall is lowered silently to the ground, a pool of red spreading around his shoulders. Relief floods you; a sigh past your lips, a slumping of your shoulders, a belief of victory from your captor before he’s ripped away from you and thrown across the floor.

Jacob is hooded and skulking, shoulders hunched as he rounds on the man, knife twirling in his hand and a sinister glower across his face. You’re tired and safe now, head rolling forward on your shoulders and eyes falling shut to the sound of terrified screams.

He breathes your name and cups your face with one large, gloved hand. The other slices through the ropes that bind you and holds you upright as you slump further, every fibre of your being aching for a warm bed and rest.

His forehead is pressed against yours, your hands laced together.

> _Oh, take my hand, take my whole life too  
>  For I can’t help falling in love with you_

Jacob spends every possible moment he can with you; streaked out on the bed with you, slouched against the headboard with you tucked under his arm, curled up against your back as you sleep.

He blames himself, you know, blames his own carelessness and blatant favouritism, and assures you over and over – in the early morning before light has touched the sky, in the late evening when the stars are glittering high over the city and out of the smog – that you’re not just _a_ Rook, not replaceable by any means.

“You had yourself thrown into the _Thames_ for me,” he whispers into your hair. He’s grinning, his heartbeat steady against your ear as he rubs circles on your back. “There is nothing ‘replaceable’ about that. That kind of stupidity is a brand of its own. Do you know how many diseases you could have caught from that water? And you made me feel obligated to save you – how inconsiderate of you.”

You’re sore, bruised and tired, but you manage to respond. “You’re a prick.”

He presses a kiss to your hairline. “I’d dive in after you a thousand times, love. I swear it.”

Dawn is breaking over London and you’re content.

> _Oh, for I can’t help falling in love with you_


	16. Deals [Evie Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You knew her once as Evie Frye. Now she’s the demon who’ll save your brother’s life._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halloween '16 fic. _extremely_ AU!

“I had a brother once,” says the demon thoughtfully, striding towards you in the centre of the crossroads. She treads over your summoning circle without a thought. “It’s admirable that you’d go through all this for him.”

 _You didn’t have a brother_ , you want to scream, _the body you inhabit did_.

You knew her once as Evie Frye. Now she’s the demon who’ll save your brother’s life.

You hold out the scrap of paper you’ve written your offering on, watching her icy eyes look over it with a mockery of deep thought. She doesn’t care, you know, doesn’t care to hasten herself to help you – not even with your brother’s life hanging in the balance.

She hums thoughtfully. “It could be,” she muses, “with just one more little thing.”

She burns the scrap of paper in her palm and adjusts her leather jacket, spinning on her heel as she paces in front of you. It’s another ploy, you think, another way for her to manipulate you into thinking she’s doing her best to _help_ you.

“Five years is too long to make him wait for your soul, sweetheart,” she says, an almost self-suffering sigh escaping her lips. “If not for him, I’d make this deal right now.”

 _Liar_. The world nearly escapes your lips. _He has nothing to do with this_.

“Two years,” she tells you without preamble. “I’ll even _personally_ come to collect.”

You’d expected worse.

Her eyes turn black when you shake her hand.

“Deal.”

* * *

Your brother’s cancer is in remission two days later. He’s a medical marvel according to his doctors.

* * *

She _checks_ in on you.

Two days a week, usually in the afternoon and always when you’re alone. _Protecting my investment_ is what she says. _Making sure you don’t kill yourself before I get your soul_ is what you hear.

She helps herself to the lunch you prepare and makes herself at home on the sofa. She starts to talk about her life – about _other_ deals, about her _brother dearest_ who’s still hunting for her.

“He thinks he can expel me,” she muses with a wicked grin and for all the few times you met Jacob, you don’t doubt it. Jacob will go to hell and back (literally) if it means removing this demon from Evie’s body.

And you’d help him, if only he’d _let_ you.

Every call you make goes straight to voicemail, your texts are unanswered; whatever he’s doing must be super freaking important – it _better_ be – because if he’d just pick up his damn phone you could tell him his sister is sitting right in _front of you_.

“I think you’re underestimating how stubborn he is,” you tell her one evening. She’s stayed longer than usual (and when did you get _comfortable_ with _that_?) and is drinking wine by the glassful. It doesn’t affect her at all but she tells you she likes the taste so you keep buying it.

“I know _exactly_ how stubborn he is,” she tells you and for a moment she sounds like _Evie_ again. “That doesn’t change the likelihood of his success.”

You clear the plates and grab a tub of ice cream from the freezer. As you wait for it to soften, you fire off another text to Jacob – blunt and straight to the point.

 _She’s here_.

* * *

“You’re going to exorcise it, right?”

“Of course.”

* * *

You don’t hear from them for three days afterwards. You wonder if they’re gone already, off to the next hunt, the next adventure. You wonder if you’ll ever see them again, if you’ll find them before…

How are you supposed to leave your brother like this? With no one to watch over him?

* * *

She stands in the doorway looking exhausted but beautiful.

“I’ll fix this,” she tells you insistently, in the breaths between kisses. “I’ll save you.”

 _I know_ , you nearly say, but you settle instead for showing her.


	17. Hunting [Jacob Frye]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You can see nothing but him, smell nothing but leather and blood, and his touch is deceptively soft when he brushes your hair from your eyes. There’s blood on his neck, you note, and the corner of his lips._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> halloween '16 fic! _extremely_ AU!

It’s easy to track him down. It’s _harder_ to actually _find_ him.

He leaves messes for his _kind_ to clean up, bodies slumped in alleys, tossed aside on sofas and beds in the apartments he manages to find his way in to. It’s always the same your colleague had told you before you set out – he picks his victim, gains their trust, kills them. Where he kills them depends on how _hungry_ he is.

A cold shiver runs down your spine as you turn away from the latest body. The victim lies at an awkward angle behind a dumpster; legs sprawled, arm broken and her throat ripped out. She’s still bleeding, blood oozing from the wound and staining her white shirt. Her eyes are glassy and staring ahead as her skin pales.

You’d been a few seconds too late and the vampire had taken off as you’d rounded the corner.

“Shit,” you sigh, shaking your head. You dagger is a comfortable weight against your thigh as you leave, hearing the sirens in the distance, drawing ever closer. “Fucking _vampires_.”

* * *

Two days and five bodies later, you finally find him.

“You’re persistent,” he comments, leaning against the wall with his arms across his chest.

You shrug, hoping to keep yourself calm and nonchalant, hoping he can’t tell how wary of him you are. “Have to be in this job.”

Jacob Frye smirks. “Pay well does it?”

“It better.” For the amount of nights you’ve wasted hunting him, you better get paid in solid fucking gold.

“Ah,” he sighs, pushing off the wall. “A novice.”

You bristle. “It’s not exactly hard to stab someone in the _heart_ –“

He crowds into you then, invading your personal space, your senses, _everything_. You can see nothing but him, smell nothing but leather and blood, and his touch is deceptively soft when he brushes your hair from your eyes. There’s blood on his neck, you note, and the corner of his lips.

He mistakes your gaze for a want of something else. He leans in, still smirking, and backs away just in time for your dagger to catch his cheek. You rest the blade against his pulse – or where it should be.

He looks impressed. He raises his hands, palms up, and starts to back away, unperturbed as you follow.

“I’d recommend looking into the men and women I’ve killed,” he tells you, his voice a whisper between the two of you. “These killings are not as unwarranted as you’d think.”

“Don’t try to justify the murdering of innocent people –“

A muscle in his jaw ticks. “I’ve never hurt an innocent person in my life,” he tells you and something in his voice has you lowering your knife and backing away. 

You’re utterly perplexed, holding the knife tightly in your hand and never looking away from the vampire. He rattles off an address and a name, “Crawford Starrick,” and tells you to do your research.

The shadows swallow him whole, leaving you more confused than before and asking the darkness, “ _what the fuck_?”

* * *

 “So?” he greets when you see him next. “Have you done your homework?”

“You honestly expect me to believe,” you start breathlessly, clutching your heart and trying to calm your breathing, “that Crawford Starrick, _the_ Crawford Starrick, entrepreneur and philanthropist and all-round _lovely_ bloke is… _what_ , exactly? And don’t sneak up on me you bastard!”

“You know,” Jacob muses, shaking his head, “for a vampire hunter you’re not very aware of your surroundings. If I was anyone else, I could have killed you and been gone by now.” He pauses, musing. “I bet you taste delicious.”

“Fuck you, Frye,” you snap waspishly.

“I was _joking_ ,” he mutters. “Christ, you hunters are always so bloody _serious_. Learn to relax. You’ll learn a lot more that way.”

You wave your hand and roll your eyes. “Starrick, Frye?”

“Ah, yes. Mr Starrick, such a wonderful example of _humanity_.” His voice is dripping with sarcasm. “Except he’s been around for, hm, three-hundred years?”

“That’s not possible,” you tell him exasperatedly.

He gestures to himself, up and down. “ _Isn’t it_?”

“That’s not what I meant.” You pause, running your hands through your hair. “I mean _some_ one would have made the connection already. He’s not _no_ -one, you know?”

“Yes, I know.” He fiddles with the cuffs of his leather jacket, frowning. “The only reason no-one has brought it up is because he gets to them all before they can. Sends his Blighters to _take care_ of them.”

You don’t need him to explain what _take care_ of means.

“So what you’re saying is,” you start, pinching the bridge of your nose between your thumb and forefinger, “that _great-grandfather_ or whatever Starrick’s always raving on about – the one with all the successful businesses and shit from the 18-somethings… that’s _him_?”

“Bingo,” says Jacob. He grins. “I love that word.”

“Yeah, it’s great,” you mutter distractedly. “This is bigger than us, Jacob. I can’t just walk into his office and _murder_ him.”

“Why not?” Jacob shrugs. “I’ve been doing it to his Blighters, you’ve been doing it to my kind for centuries.”

“The whole point of hunters is that we protect humanity without –“

“Without them knowing you’re there, yes, yes,” Jacob finishes disinterestedly, waving his hand, but your thoughts have drifted back to his earlier words – _I’ve been doing it to his Blighters_ … _I’ve never hurt an innocent person in my life_ …

“Wait…” you shake your head, huffing a disbelieving laugh. “The Blighters still _exist_?”

“Of course.”

“They’re how he finds out if someone’s getting close to figuring it out…”

“You’re finally catching up,” he praises. “Honestly, I thought it would never happen.”

“Don’t be a dick.”

You’ll need to talk to the Council, you realise. You’ll need to gather evidence to prove what you’ve learned. This isn’t going to be easy.

“They’ll hunt you,” Jacob tells you seriously. He must have read on your face the direction your thoughts have taken. “They’ll try their damnedest to kill you.”

You take a breath; your hands are shaking. “Then I suppose it’s up to you to make sure that doesn’t happen.” He blinks. “You are _not_ leaving me to do this _alone_ , Jacob Frye.”

He grins, an impish quirk of his lips that eases your nerves somewhat. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”


End file.
